Grow Up
by The Purple Pineapple
Summary: AU: After a brief encounter years ago, Fitz and Liv are brought together by a tragic accident. Can they grow up and rise to the challenge, or will it be too much for them? Expect: Fiery fights, budding romance and simmering angst.
1. The Guardians

**I was going to write a one-shot, for You've Got Growing up to Do, by Joshua Radin, but then I got the idea for this story. I really, really, hope you'll like it.**

* * *

The lights on the Christmas tree flash rhythmically, making colorful specs dance across the dull waiting-room walls. She's done. She's finally done. Her 36-hour shift finished and in a couple of hours her family is coming to visit. Well, the only family she has. She'll go home, take a nice long shower, and a power nap, before they come. She'll have enough time, time to get ready, to prepare her place; prepare herself. Because, as much as she loves them, she's an introvert – she enjoys her quiet, she enjoys her own space; she enjoys being on her own. So she'll go home, shower, and give herself some time to mentally prepare to be social. She'll have time.

"Dr. Pope to ER. Dr. Pope to ER." And, apparently she won't.

She drops her head theatrically on top of a freshly updated chart. This can't be happening. Not right now. Not the day they're meant to come. She's meant to be done.

"Sorry, love." A man with a thick Scottish accent says as he passes the nurses' station, motioning her to follow him. "They brought in a kid. Nine. 2nd degree burns. Fireworks gone ka-boom." He says, opening up his fists and moving them out, explosion-like. "And you want to specialize in PEDs, so you're staying."

She just nods her head, and takes in a deep breath, pausing briefly before stepping into the chaos that is the ER, the day before Christmas. Voices, shouting, yelling across the room and calling for help; people crying in pain. The smell of blood and disinfectant; she's been working there for four years and she's still not used to it; no there's still something unsettling about it. She follows Stephen, moving expertly between panicking parents, and terrified spouses; smiling at them politely, but never stopping. They are not her patients; not her problems.

"Here he is." He stops next to a bed with the smallest looking nine year-old she's seen. He's thin, boney, his eyes perturbing. There are bandages on his face and his hands, everything else was covered by clothes. "Aaron, this is Dr. Pope. She's like a girl-superhero." He motions to Liv, smiling. "And Dr. Pope, this is Aaron. That brave eleven year-old I mentioned."

"I'm not eleven, Dr Finch!" The boy exclaims, clearly pleased.

"Oh, you're not? But you're holding up so well!" Liv says, trying to hide her grin, as she sits down on a stool, and starts pulling the bandages off. She chats to him as she cleans the wounds and disinfects them; jokes with him as she applies the medicine and wraps a new set of bandages. She loves kids. She's great with kids.. Patients, that is. Otherwise, kids terrify her; the idea of that much responsibility, of anyone depending on her to do anything, terrifies her. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about the idea of having a child appeals to her. They make good patients, they're fun and resilient; amazing in small doses. She loves hanging out with them, but she'd hate to have to raise them.

"OK, Aaron, that's it!" She says smiling, as she gets up. "Your parents around? I can have a nurse find them, and we'll start the discharge papers." But before he can answer the boy is shaking uncontrollably, and she's calling out for help, her voice joining the racket of the ER.

"His pupil is blown."

"How did we miss this?" Steven asks, glaring.

"Do you honestly want to discuss that right now, while he's seizing?" She fires back at him, her hands moving frantically over the shaking parts of the small body. "Let's go! Let's go! Why is this taking so long?" She's yelling at the two nurses who are battling with monitors and IVs. It's not panic, it's adrenaline coursing through her body. This, this is who she is. The person who thrives under pressure, who thinks quickly on her feet, who makes the right decisions in a split second. The rush, the high-stakes, the crazy hours and the constant pressure to be better – it's who she is. Surgery is who she is.

* * *

He feels a sharp pain in his chest. Suddenly he can't breathe; his lungs constricted. He draws in a sharp breath.

"Mornin' babe. You OK?" He tries to match the voice to a face in his head, but to no avail. After a certain point they, his type, they all start to look the same. Tiny waist, long legs, long hair, big breasts, between 18-23 and wearing clothes that barely fit. And they can't be talkers, because, he really, really hates the talkers. This, the meaningless sex with pretty girls whose names he never remembers, it's meant to ease the pain of being him, even if only momentarily. It's not about their hopes and dreams; and he, he doesn't have any.

He opens his eyes lazily, still breathing somewhat heavily, the whole room is bathing in winter sunlight. He looks at his watch – fifteen minutes past midday. "Hardly morning, pretty girl," he says finally looking at her face. And she giggles – it's unnaturally loud, forced, practiced – as if someone told her how to laugh for the boys. And sadly, he thinks, someone probably did. That's the thing he doesn't understand, why do they even talk to him, why do they try to impress him – don't they see how screwed up he is, don't they see he doesn't amount to anything. Why do these girls waste time on him? He doesn't understand, but he's learned not to question it; just rinse and repeat.

He gets up, the grey sheet sliding down his naked body and falling onto the bed, as he stretches out his arms and his back; his muscles performing a perfectly coordinated dance. "You joining me in the shower?" He asks as he heads to the bathroom, not really waiting for a response, not even bothering to look at the girl. He knows she's getting up, he knows she's nervously walking behind him, he knows she's joining him – they always do.

He's sitting on the bed, phone in hand, pretending to put her number in, as he watches her get dressed. She pulls her red thongs up, slowly, painfully slowly; teasing. She knows what she's doing. He likes this one; she's fun; but no, no second-times. He'll never see her again; she just doesn't know it yet. The phone vibrates, making him look away, making him focus on the white numbers on the screen. That can't be it.

He knows the number. He's put it in a thousand times after that nigh. He put it in and then deleted it. He put it in and stared at it. Wishing. Wishing he were different, wishing he could treat her the right way, wishing he deserved her, or at least that there was a way to earn her. He knows the number, and for a moment he debates whether to answer. Whatever the reason she's calling, whatever it is, it's better to stay away. When they're in vicinity they're like magnets – attraction irresistible, but complete opposite personalities. She's smart and funny, and she cares about things; and he, well he's just pretty with a good head of hair and sparkling eyes; empty inside. But something, a nagging feeling in his gut makes him pick up.

And it's the same voice. The same, "Hi."

* * *

Her pager beeps for the third time, echoing through the deafening silence in the room, broken up by the sounds of the heart-monitor.

She steadies her hands and speaks, never lifting her gaze, "Can someone, please check what that is about! Quinn, can you please call down and see why they need me. Unless it's an emergency- Actually, even if it's an emergency, I don't want to know about. I am a mile deep in this kid's brain and that's as life-and-death as it gets. So turn off my pager. Find out what is it that they need, and figure out how to solve it, without me leaving and killing the patient. Can you do that?"

The nurse nods her head weakly. "Quinn, I can't see you nodding. Do you have this?"

"Yes, Dr. Pope, I got it." And she calls down to the station, nods her head a few times, then unceremoniously drops her pager to the ground, startling everyone. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She utters, breathily, as she tries to pick it up from the floor clumsily, her hands shaking.

"Quinn, what's going on?" Cyrus asks, looking up. She shakes her head, as she utters a quiet, "Oh, it's nothing," but her eyes become teary and her lip quivers slightly. "Pope, you OK here for a minute?" He asks, without giving her time to answer, dropping his instruments on the tray and motioning Quinn outside. "What the hell is going on? I don't care what it is, I don't care if pits of hell have opened up in the ER, you do not have a meltdown. Not during a brain surgery, on a kid! Now, what is it?" His voice is sharp, terse, almost venomous.

He scrubs back in, a few minutes later, another nurse following him closely. "Everything alright Dr. Beene?" Liv asks, absentmindedly, too engrossed in what she's doing.

"Nothing for you to worry about, right now." He says, a tone of finality in his voice. And she just nods her head, happy to let whatever it is go away and focus on patching up the 11 year-old's brain.

"That was amazing!" She exclaims excitedly as she steps out of the OR, pushing her cap back, scrunching it up in her hand. "I mean, I thought we were going to lose him. The second bleed – I thought that was it! But then, then I just fixed it. I was doing it before I even knew what I was doing. That was amazing! Thank you for letting me do that surgery! You didn't have to let me do that, you could have fought me for it, so thanks!" She says, all in one breath, excitement coursing through her body; satisfaction; happiness. This, this is as close to happy as she gets.

"Well Dr. Beene was mightily impress-"

"Why don't you let me be a judge of that, huh, Dr. Finch?" He just nods his head in agreement, completely unfazed by the reprimanding tone in his supervisor's voice. "I need a word with Dr. Pope. Alone. You can go and update the dad."

Both of them look at the older man like he's just grown three extra heads. "But it was Dr. Pope's patient. Shouldn't she do the honors?"

"Update the dad! Now!" Final. No arguments, no questions asked. He hurries down the hall, leaving the two of them alone.

"What's going on?" She asks, as son as he's out of earshot.

"There has been a car crash." She nods her head. They deal with multiple car crashes every day, she's dealt with multiple car-crash patients, but she's by no means an expert. So why is he telling her that? Professionally, she has nothing to offer, aside from a pair of helping hands, but Steven could have done that. So, no it can't be professional. Which only, which only leaves personal. She looks up, terrified; the wheels in her head have come to a halt. "Abigail and Theodore Grant were involved in a car accident. Their car was hit by a truck, on I-90. The injuries they sustained were too grave. They died at the scene of the accident, at 12:15 p.m." His voice is detached, robotic, an emotionless monotone. But his eyes, his eyes are the eyes of a broken man.

"What about-" But she can't finish the sentence. She can't hear it, not that as well.

"Lynn is OK." His voice cracks a little bit as he says the name, his thumb brushing the tear she didn't realize was there, off her cheek.

"Where is she?" She asks, breathlessly – no air in her lungs, in her blood, in her brain – no air.

"She's here. In my office. With Quinn." She instantly starts walking, then running down the hall; because she, she needs to be moving. Maybe she can outrun reality and turn it into a bad dream "Liv," he calls out, and she stops instantly, but doesn't turn around; no, she can't face him – his face a reminder, "she's your responsibility now." She stands there, in the deserted hallway for another moment, then starts running again.

She stands outside the office door, looking through the glass window. A six year-old is lying on the couch, a pink cast on her arm; her face swollen, trails of tears still glistering, even as she sleeps. She opens the door and calls out quietly, "Quinn?"

"I am so sorry Dr. Pope. I am so sorry for your loss." Condolences. That's all she gets now. She lost her best friends; her family and all she's left with are sympathetic condolences. She wants to scream. She wants to scream and throw things. She wants to break things. She wants to run, or to swim, until her whole body is burning; until it hurts so much that the pain is overwhelming; until it hurts enough for her to forget everything, everything else – all about the dying and the living. All about the girl whose life was just shattered, sleeping there on the couch; a girl who suddenly depends on her – to make her whole, to help her; to _parent_ her. "Dr. Pope?" The soft voice brings her out of her thoughts; out of panic and emotional abyss, into the chaos of reality. "There's something else."

"What?" It's snappy, and more unfriendly that she intended, but she's on the very verge of breaking and niceties; well niceties are exhausting.

"You were their emergency contact. And you are listed as the guardian." She nods her head; she knows that. She remembers the conversation, vividly.

_"I can't believe you slept with him!" Her best friend shouts, as she throws her head back in laughter. "Liv! He's the biggest man-whore I know. I mean the cheesy pick-ups and the hungry eyes, and that God-awful-fake-smile… I thought you were better than that! I thought you knew better!"_

_"Abby, chill. It was just sex, in a supply closet. I don't plan on marrying the guy." But she's lying. It wasn't just sex in a supply closet. It was more than that. And he wasn't a chauvinistic asshole everyone made him out to be, he, he had something she could work with._

_"I just can't believe you slept with Fitz. At my wedding. In the church. I mean you had sex with the devil on the church premises." _

_She pours herself more wine, desperately needing the red liquid to absolve her of her sins, or at least absolve her of the feelings that still linger, somewhere below the surface. "You haven't touched your wine. Everything alright?"_

_The redhead looks at her hands, nervously playing with her wedding band, "I'm pregnant."_

_"What?" There's shock in her voice, shock she hoped wouldn't be obvious. She loves her friend. But she's brilliant and a career-obsessive. That's one of the reasons they're friends; they've always been on the same page. She doesn't have the kids gene, just like Liv. _

_"We, we didn't plan for it. But now, now that it happened, I… I think I want to keep it." Her voice is shaky; unsure; fearful. "I want it. I just… what if I'm not cut out for it?"_

_Liv chastises herself internally for not being more supportive instantly, for letting her mind mess with her friend's head. "Abby Whelan. You are brilliant. You have achieved everything you have set your mind to; every-single-thing. So if this, if having a baby is what you want to do; you will do it and you will be great at it. And I will be there, every step of the way. To spoil this baby, as a fun place to escape to; to buy it stuff you don't want to. You've got this and I have your back. OK?"_

_She just nods her head, and runs her palms up her face, trying to wipe the stream of tears away. "I'm just hormonal!" She sobs between breaths. She takes a moment to collect herself, wiping her hands on her skirt. She takes a breath and looks straight into Liv's eyes, the expression different; no longer playful or even lost, no now she's a mama-lion. "Teddy's making a will. Just in case. It's the Grant way of preparing for the baby. We want you to be the guardian. Just in case?"_

_She nods her head, yes. After all; it's just in case; and that, that never happens. _

"I know I'm the guardian, Quinn." She cuts her off impatiently.

"It's a shared guardianship actually." She retorts, cutting her off clearly the only way to get her to listen. "You and Mr. Grant's brother, Fitzgerald; you're both guardians. Together."

"What?"

"Well, I was on the phone, with the lawyer, you friend, Mr. Wright? Anyway, he said they put both of you down as guardians in their will, and unless one of you is willing to give up the guardianship, you're to share it."

This cannot be happening. She doesn't hear the rest of it. She can't give Lynn up. They trusted her. They trusted her with their child. She can't let them down. She can't. But she can' raise a child with a man she barely knows; a man who is by all accounts a child himself. She can't share the responsibilities with a grown-baby who doesn't understand the concept of responsibility. No; that's not happening. She' ll take Lynn, and she'll get him to give up – he can visit, he can be fun, they can keep in touch; but _they_'re not doing this; she is.

"Have you called him?"

"Not yet, we wanted to wait, for you to-"

"Thanks!" She pulls her phone out of her pocket and puts in the number she knows; the number she's put in a thousand times before, but never called. She walks down the hallway and sits down on the floor, her back against the cool wall. The ringing. Each time it seems like eternity. He's not picking up. And finally, a soft click, and a familiar, "Hi."

She tells him. She tells him his brother died. She tells him one of their best friends is dead as well. She says it in that same tome that Cyrus used – the detached, emotionless one. The one that's meant to sound strong, confident, provide solace; but really it's just masking up the humanity, shutting down the feelings. She tells him and there's silence. They both just breathe, their breaths in sync. She tells him about Lynn, and that he doesn't have to come up right now. He tells her he'll be there in a couple of hours. They just stay on the phone, just for a minute, a minute to let it sink in: the realization that the person at the other end of the phone is the only one on the planet who feels the same way; who completely understands.

She hangs up and sees a little 1 next to her voicemail. She presses, dial. A familiar voice in her ear, "Hey Liv. We'll be there early. Ted insisted we leave early because of traffic, but we got lucky, so we're getting there early now. Which I know you'll love, because it's not like you had a morning to shower, relax and mentally prepare for us planned." She whispers, "Sorry," and then carries on in her regular voice, "Anyways, let me know if you need us to pick anything up. We're so excited. Aren't we, Lynn?" And she hears the phone shuffling, then a smaller, higher-pitched voice is chiming in her ear, "Yes, we are! Mostly for the presents." She hears the girl giggle, and her friend exclaim, "Carolyn Grant!"

"Mom told me not to say that." And more giggles. More shuffling. Her friend's laughing, "Sorry about that! We'll see you in a bit. I'm so excited to catch up, I'm drowning with these two Grants." And she can hear a wounded "ouch," and "that was mean," in the background, and then her friend hangs up; _hung up._

* * *

She's sitting on the couch; her head on Cy's chest; Lynn's head in Cy's lap, as he runs his fingers though the girl's hair absentmindedly. She sees him standing by the glass wall, looking in, just taking the scene in. She kisses Cy's cheek and then gets up, opening the office door.

The last time she saw him she was wearing heels, a dress that took his breath away and makeup that accentuated the beauty of her face. Now, now she's in sneakers, scrubs, makeup-less, eyes glossy from the unshed tears. He was tall then, but now she barely reaches his shoulders. There's something reassuring about that, something comforting about his protective stance; something soothing; like a part of responsibility is being lifted, because he, he can carry it. She tilts her head up, to look at his face. She gives him a weak smile, as he utters, "Hi." He pulls her in for a hug, her head rests on his chest; his body engulfing her small frame – for the first time since she found out she feels, safe. She murmurs a quiet, "Hi" against his sweater; and she thinks he doesn't hear, but he does – and for a moment, a split second, it lets him smile.

As he holds her like that. So fragile, yet so full of strength; for the first time in his life he believes he can change. He believes he can do better, and be better, for her, for them. Because the two of them, they need him. His family picked him, they trusted him with the person they loved the most, they trusted him with her; so he can't; he won't walk away. He'll help her, he'll help her in any way he can. Standing there, inhaling her scent, feeling her silent tears dampen his sweater he knows he has to do better; he has to be better.

And for the first time in his life, Fitzgerald Grant sees a reason to grow up.

* * *

**Do you think Liv will want him to give up the guardianship? Do you think he'll agree? Do you think he should? Let me know your thoughts and if you'd like to read more :)**


	2. A Wedding and a Funeral

**First off - the reaction to this story BLEW MY MIND! So THANK YOU. Now, I hope you'll enjoy this. It's flashbacks to the wedding/present day. **

* * *

_"I have to know the name of the girl with the hottest legs in this place."_

_She's standing at the bar waiting for a glass of white wine that Abby requested. She claimed it was to calm her nerves, but she's calm, she's steady and sure, she doesn't need the alcohol. What she did need was a moment to talk to Teddy, to hear his voice, to hear the love in it, to remove any doubt that either of them is going to run. They're in this, together and forever. So she left to get the wine and conveniently left her cellphone behind. Now she's standing at the bar, in the warm afternoon sun, the racket and the excitement around her disappearing, as her blood begins to boil. _

_"Does that line ever work for you?" She says, as she turns around; her voice cold, her eyes narrowed, as she scans him – up and down. He's tall, very tall; handsome, bordering on gorgeous, and clearly cocky, bordering on obnoxious. _

_"You'd be surprised." And he flashes her a wide smile. There's something about it – so careless and so free, completely unapologetic; that makes her like him; for just a second she doesn't feel like she wants to slap him. But then he speaks again, and the feeling of utter disdain is back. "I mean it's a wedding, you can't expect me to bring my A-game." He just looks at her as he says it, his eyes focusing on her lips, as he licks his. He's not even trying to pretend that he's interested in her name because he wants to get coffee one morning and exchange life-stories; no he wants sex and he sees no point in pretending. The arrogance, the arrogance is irritating; but there's also something refreshing about the honesty, there's something frustratingly attractive about it. She should hate the way he licks his damn lips, but she doesn't – it makes her shift in her place, it makes her squirm under his gaze; it makes her want to jump him right then and there. _

_"Liv, Abby's asking for you." And she sees a smile widen on his face, as she nods her head towards Steven and turns to the bar to grab the wine. _

_"You're Olivia, Olivia Pope, the maid of honor?" She just nods, and grins at him, before turning around and practically running away in five-inch heels. She knows who he is. She's seen those eyes before, they run in the family – the deep blue unnervingly soothing. _

She looks down into a pair of blue eyes; Teddy's eyes; his daughter an unmistakable Grant. She hasn't cried since the day of the accident. She hasn't cried and she's barely slept; she's barely eaten and she hasn't spoken. Not a word in five days. She kisses her forehead and runs her hands down the girl's dress; pretending to straighten the perfectly ironed item. She kneels down, to her eye level.

"Do you want me to braid it?" And the girl just shakes her head. She hasn't allowed her to touch her hair. Brushing it and braiding it was Abby's favorite thing – it was a part of their morning and evening routine; just one of the many mother-daughter things. Things that she can try to imitate, but will never be able to do the same; and the difference – the little mistakes, those will be constant reminders of death. So she's just been backing away, giving her space; trying to let her process. But she hasn't eaten and she hasn't spoken, and she seems so utterly broken. And Liv, Liv has no idea how to fix it. She just utters a weak, "OK." And gives her a soft kiss on the cheek, standing up and grabbing her heels from the corner. "It's time to leave." And she takes the girl's hand – lifeless, almost like her parents'.

He's standing in the living room, looking out the window. He turns around as he hears the clink of heels against the concrete. Because her floors, they're concrete – her whole place, it's empty space, it's modern – glass and metal and concrete, minimalist; it's a home to sleep in, not to live in; not to raise a child in. His eyes are no longer the same blue, no this one, this one is dull – the redness, suffocating; the bloody capillaries like meandering tree-branches. He gives her a weak smile, as he picks up his jacket from the couch and leads them to the door. His hand resting on the small of her back.

_She turns the corner, behind the last row of white chairs and starts walking down the soft, grass path, to the floral altar. Her first step she looks at the ground, trying to collect herself, after-all she has no reason to be nervous, it's not even her day. But, it's not working, her heart is beating loudly, drumming in her ears, and her throat is closing – she hates this, being the center of attention, even for a moment, the spotlight, even if it is just for a minute before Abby comes out – it's unnerving and terrifying. She looks up, and all she sees in the crowd is the pair of the eyes from the bar. He smiles. She doesn't understand how, or why his smile has the effect that it does, but it instantly calms her down. Her breathing steadies, and she's clutching the bouquet just a little bit less; her throat is functioning again, and she can hear the music, rather than her own heartbeat. There's something in his eyes, a warmth, a kindness that makes her feel safe; a desire that makes her feel confident, so confident. In that moment he is all she sees – his presence making it easy to overcome her momentary fear._

_He can't take his eyes off of her. The way she blushes when she turns the corner, how she counts her steps, trying to take her time, but rushing, trying to get out from the spotlight. And then she looks up, and somehow, in the crowd she's looking straight into his eyes. And he can't help but smile. They never break the eye contact. She gets closer and closer, until he can see the specs of gold in her eyes, reflecting the sunlight, beaming bright; until he can smell her scent – the fresh lavender filling up the spring air. He wants to reach out and touch her hand, he wants to kiss the skin at the back of her neck, peeking under the side-swept hair; but he just looks at her instead, not blinking, barely breathing. And she looks right back at him. They forget about the time, and the place, about the wedding and the guests, in that moment it's just them. And then the music starts and it breaks them out. They break the eye-contact and instantly, he feels lonely, somehow empty. _

_Abby glides down, holding on to her father's arm. She smiles. And he can see Teddy smiling. He's never seen two people who looked so happy. Cyrus officiates, cracking awful jokes every now and then, earning a few pity laughs and a couple of genuine ones. They say their vows. They're short and to the point, little promises. Of love, of forgiveness and generosity, respect and tenderness. A promise of a life together._

They lower the coffins into the ground. The reverend speaks. He speaks of love, of loss and moving on, remembering and letting go. He speaks of death. He speaks of heaven as they stand, living through their personal hell. He looks at Liv. Her face stoic, but her eyes clouded. Her lip quivers as he says their names. She closes her eyes as he speaks of those who stay behind, of those who are to live on. She closes them, and a tear rolls down her cheek. He wants to wipe it, to brush it off, touch her skin and feel the warmth, feel the life pulsing through her – life amidst all the death. He wants to. But he just looks at her instead.

She can feel Lynn squeezing her hand. As they lover the coffins it's no longer lifeless, it's not longer resigned and shut off; suddenly it's clenching in pain, it's holding on. She feels it - the fear, as the little fingers dig into her palm. She feels it and she wishes it was lifeless again. As the tears roll down the girls' cheeks, she wishes she wasn't feeling, as she sobs, she wishes she was quiet again – numb. Maybe, maybe that hurts less. She squeezes her hand back, and she wants to hug her, to run fingers through her hair, soothingly, she wants to hold her and tell her it will be OK. But she's afraid. Afraid of making it worse. Afraid that her touch will only make her miss her mom. So she just squeezes her hand back, and looks into the distance. But then, he bends down and picks her up, scoops the little girl up in his arms. He runs his hands through her hair and he pulls her head into his chest. He whispers in her ear that it will be OK. He holds her until it's over. Until the coffins are gone, the roses thrown, the friends and family done saying goodbye. He holds her and eventually her breathing slows down, the sobbing stops, the tears run dry. Eventually she's back to the awful quiet.

He can feel her body calm, he feels the shaking slow, until it stops; he no longer hears the sobs. She's back to her shell, to the awful quiet. He wants to go the to edge of the grave; the very edge; look over, from life into death. He needs to say goodbye for the last time. He needs to, but he can't move. He feels her hand on his back, her warm breath on his neck; her whisper in his ear, "It's OK, I've got her." And she loops her arms through his, and pulls the little girl away from his body, onto her hip. They both hold their breath for a moment, afraid, that she'll start crying again, feeling again, but she doesn't. She just rests her head in the crook of her neck, wrapping her arms around Liv's petite shoulders. And she runs her hand along the girls' back, whispering in her ear – "It will be OK."

He walks over to the grave, his shoes sinking into the dirt. He kneels down and takes a fistful of earth, throwing it on the polished wood. As he gets up, dusting off his palms, he utters, whispers really, "I've got them. I got them Teddy." And with that he turns away, seeing his life ahead. He kisses the top of the girl's head, as he wraps his arm around Liv; and they walk away, in step.

_His arms are wrapped around her, as they sway to the music, slowly. They've been talking. She's told him things. Her plans, her fears. She told him about Harvard, and the med school and the utter exhaustion that follows the perceived perfection. She told him about her mom, about why her dad was never around. She told him how afraid she is of not living, of waking up one morning and realizing that all she has is a lifetime of achievements, a lifetime of memories and no one to share them with. She told him things, things she never said out loud before. He held her tighter when she needed it, and he nodded, and he smiled. And he never stopped, he never stopped dancing. No matter what she said, no matter how terrified she was as the words left her lips, he never stopped dancing. _

_He's told her things; memories, dreams. He told her about that summer in the Hamptons when Teddy and him found out about his father's other family. He told her about the company, and why he doesn't want anything to do with it. He told her about Europe, traveling. He told her about how proud he is of Teddy. He also told her how jealous he's been, he still is. He told her things, and she listened. She smiled at things he found funny, and she looked at him with understanding, like she didn't judge him – like she felt the sadness in the little moments, in the small disappointments. She understood him, she knew him, somehow, instantly she knew him – and she was still in his arms, dancing, smiling. _

_It's too much. Too overwhelming. The connection, the attraction, the feeling. He can't handle it. So he says the one thing, the one thing he knows will break the moment instantly, the one thing that will undo everything. "So, now that I've played your shrink, can I get you in bed with me?" He regrets it. Instantly. Regret, suffocating. But the regret – it's too little, too late. She steps away, batting her lashes furiously, shaking her head, as if she's trying to get her brain to focus, to comprehend what he just said. _

_"You're a child." And she walks away. He just stands there. For a moment he just stands there. And then like electricity, it surges through him, the simple understanding, the reality, that he can't let her walk away, not like this. So he runs after her, out of the tent and into the churchyard. He calls her name, but she doesn't stop, she just runs up the church steps. _

_"Liv. I'm sorry." Nothing. "Liv, come on. I was a dick. I'm sorry." She stops in her tracks and turns around, her eyes welling up, her chest heaving._

_"Yeah, you are a dick. It's sad really. I mean what; you think that by avoiding any sort of emotional connection to another human being you can't get hurt. You don't see that all your macho crap, and the superficial screwing around is already hurting you. You don't understand that the feeling, the thing that's eating away at you, it's not jealousy, or sadness that daddy doesn't love you – it's hate, self-hate, because you know that this way, you'll never amount to anything, this asshole, this front – it doesn't amount to anything. It's empty. And you know it. And that, that is why you're drowning. It's why you'll keep drowning." Her eyes are on fire, her hands shaking. She opens her mouth again, but then closes it. Instead she turns around on her heel._

_He's angry. He is so angry. Angry she said it, angry she saw right through him, angry she's walking away from him. "You do not walk away from me. Not like this." His voice echoes through the empty hallway, and she stops, but she doesn't turn around. "I may be a dick, but you're a hypocrite. You say you want to live, but you're too terrified to let yourself breathe, let alone live. You study and study and work, and achieve, and overachieve. Because you're good. Because you're brilliant and you know it. You do that and you won't allow yourself to try anything else. You're too scared to take a chance, you're too scared to take a risk, you're terrified of failing. That's not living. That's not anything. That's not worthy. It's not being a workaholic, it's being a coward. You're a coward Liv, and the saddest thing is, you know it. And you're too damn afraid to do anything about it." The quiet. Silence. Broken up by their breathing, by the shattering of the armors they've spent years hiding behind, the crashing of the walls they've built up. She turns around and marches over to him, slapping him across the cheek. Then, then she just stares at him. She tilts her head, her eyes darting across his face, looking at him, trying to find herself. She steps into his personal space again, and he prepares himself for impact, but the hand, the burning of the skin never comes. Instead, it's her lips on his, crashing. And they stumble down the hall, their hands roaming their bodies. They stumble down the hall, and through a wooden door. They stumble, but they don't fall. They hold on, on to each other. He's kissing her neck and pulling up her dress. And she's unbuckling his belt behind her back, as she tilts her head to give him better access. His hands on her thighs, they go up; and it's soft moans, and quiet grunts; it's being filled up, eyes shut tight. It's warm liquid trickling down her thighs and his chest falling and raising against her back. It's their hands, flat against the wall, slipping down, fingers intertwined. _

Her breathing is steady, her face peaceful, finally she's asleep. She kisses the top of her head, and moves her hand – the hand that was clutching her shirt, holding on feverishly. She gets up and pulls the cover over the small body, and turns on the lamp on the nightstand. The cries will echo though the loft around midnight, when she wakes up, when the reality crashes down, but at least like this, there will be some light around. She leaves the door open, just a little bit, just enough for the girl to know where to go, in this foreign place that is now her home.

"She's finally down." She says as she picks a blanket up from the couch, and starts folding it – she needs something to do, to busy her hands, something to look at, because she can't look at him when she says it. "I want full custody, Fitz."

Silence. It sounds harsh when she says it. In her mind it sounded fine, it sounded like the best thing; but now, now it sounds like a betrayal.

"No." It's firm, final. He gets up and walks over to where she's standing, taking the blanket from her hands and lifting her chin up. "Look at me, Liv." She tries to avoid his gaze, but he doesn't move his finger, he just caresses her cheek with his thumb, softly. "I'm not giving her up."

"Fitz," she steps away from his reach; she can't think when she's near him, "It's the best thing. You can still see her, you can be the fun uncle, but you're not dad material; you're not, you can't raise a child, you-"

"Do. Not. Tell. Me. What. I. Can. Do. Olivia." He hisses it out, pure venom in the broken sound. "You don't get to tell me that I can't do this. You don't get to tell me I'm not good enough. No one will be as good as her dad. No one. But they picked us. They picked you, and they picked me. They thought I could do it. They trusted me, they believed in me. So you don't get to tell me that I can't. You don't get to take this away, to push me away, because it's more convenient; because you'd rather not deal with someone who isn't intimidated by your intellect, who sees right through your shell. You don't get to tell me I'll fail. I can do this. I can raise her with you. I can be there for the school plays, and for the boyfriends, for late night cramming and graduations, and the crying and the laughing. I want to be there for all of it. And you need me here. And it terrifies you. And I get it. OK? I get that this, this is scary. It's not what you planned, it's not what you wanted; a broken little girl and guy who hasn't figured his life out. But it's what's happening Olivia. It's what's happening, and you better wrap your head around it, because pushing me away, is a waste of the energy that you don't have."

"You can't use us to figure out your life. This, this isn't a trial. A way for you to grow up. I need a grown up." She exhales sharply, rubbing her eyes with her palms; suddenly so very tired.

"Oh, come on Olivia!" He yells, frustrated, then looks in the direction of the cracked door, panicking. He carries on, a few octaves lower. "Stop pretending you have everything completely figured out. You work 80 hours a week. You eat, live and sleep at work. I mean this place, this place is basically like a hospital; it's completely impersonal. You don't do relationships; you have friends, but they're work-buddies. You live in a shell and you hide. And you want to pretend that that's what being adult is all about! Hiding away, backing away from a challenge, because of a possibility you might lose, that's not adulthood. You need to grow the hell up too!"

"Get out!" She is yelling now, she's yelling too.

"No." He walks over to her, in her personal space; towering over her, his eyes ablaze. "No. I'm not going anywhere." And he turns around and walks over to the couch, turning on the TV. She just stands there, her heart beating in her ears, drumming; her chest rising rapidly. She just stares at him. Frustrated. She's never been that frustrated with another human being. She's never been that impressed; that amazed. She's never felt that challenged. "Come here." And he pats the couch, grinning – that grin that makes her knees go weak.

She just stares at him for a while, then she smiles, despite herself. She walks over to the couch, slowly, and sits next to him, pulling her knees up.

He pulls her in. Her head rests on his chest. He inhales her scent. He reaches for her hand. Their fingers interlace.

For the first time in five days, life surges through through them.

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**Let me just say it again - THANK YOU so much, for following, favoriting and reviewing. I have to admit, I enjoy writing the fiery Olitz, it's quite therapeutic. I was nervous about messing this up, because you were so positive in your reviews of Ch1, so let me know how you liked it. **


	3. Moving out and Moving on

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" She asks, smiling unconsciously.

A deep sigh. "Yes Olivia." The car in front of her slows down. "Is this making you feel better? Me going 20 miles per hour?"

"No, actually it's not." She answers indignantly, her foot easing off the gas. She glances back, checking that the girl is still asleep. She's wrapped up in his jacket, holding on to the sleeve loosely. "The GPS says we're going in the wrong direction. We should have made a turn half a mile back."

"One, I thought we said you'd follow me and not the GPS; two, the GPS is wrong, this way is quicker; three, you're a control-freak, you know that? Just rela-" And the car in front of her slows down until it comes to a full stop; the voice coming from the speakerphone mixed with a drilling noise, "Shit!"

"You were saying?" She should be annoyed, angry, irritated, but she can't stop laughing. She's imagining his face right now, and his face when they finally arrive, get out of the cars and she gives him an I-told-you-so-grin; she's imagining his face when she re-tells the story to one of his fuck-buddies one morning, and his face when Lynn starts asking why they're stuck in traffic. So no, she's not annoyed; she's just laughing.

"Oh, shut up." But it only makes her laugh, louder, harder.

"I feel like you should apologize."

"For what? This is your fault. You insisted we leave on a Sunday, in the middle of the night. That's when they fix the roads Olivia. I told you that, but no, you know best. And now, you're blaming it on me."

"Would you like me to consult the GPS Fitz?" She's still chuckling, trying to calm down, completely unfazed by his rant. He's quiet. She can imagine him tapping his palms on the steering wheel, biting his lip nervously. "All you have to do is say it."

"Fine." He hisses out.

"Nope, that's not quite right. Remember the deal Fitz. And if you don't say it, I'm telling Lynn, and then she's calling you grumpy-pants for a week."

"You. Were. Right. Olivia." The emphasis on right and her name, and the tone of his voice make him sound like he's in third grade; but really that's too advanced for his mental age.

"Thank you. I was. Now…" And she presses the screen a few times and lets it load, glancing back again, making sure the girl is OK. It took a lot of convincing to get her to come with them and she couldn't sleep the whole night, tossing and turning, afraid she'd have a bad dream – of crashing, the glass flying, the tires screeching. Then once they were actually set to leave, she wouldn't sit inside, terrified. He finally managed to change her mind, giving her his jacket, telling her that it's a shield, that it will protect her against everything. As they were leaving the city she fell asleep. "Got it." And she goes in reverse and then makes a half turn, breaking about 20 different rules. He follows her, impressed – but it's not something he'd ever say.

They get to the house just as the morning sun starts peeking out behind the heavy clouds. She can see her breath float through the frisk winter air as she gets out of the warm comfort of the car. He pulls into the driveway behind her, as she opens the back door, shaking Lyn gently. "We're here." The little girl rubs her eyes sleepily, trying to figure out where 'here' is. Her eyes widen, and her heart starts beating faster when she sees the house; when she realizes that she is home, finally; she is where happiness is.

"You OK Lynn?" He asks bending over Olivia and poking his head in through the car door. She nods her head happily, as she pulls his jacket off and hands it to him. They move, as if on queue, making space for her to jump out of the car and run towards the house. Liv looks at him, exhaling loudly, her eyes glossy. "It's going to be OK." He says instinctively, the conviction in his voice surprising them both. She just smiles weakly and nods her head appreciatively, still not fully sold. She turns around, and starts walking to the door, and he follows her, mesmerized momentarily by the sway of her hips. She reaches into her pocket as they get to the door and takes out a set of keys. She doesn't know which key to use, from the three hanging from the key ring; the keys, the house, everything is foreign. She tries the first one and gets lucky. There's a soft click. He puts an arm around her waist, and whispers, "It's going to be OK." Lynn just looks up, and they nod their heads. She turns the handle and there's a soft creek. The three of them go in.

It's warm. They left the heating on. They left it on, because they were only going to be gone for a week. And it smells like cinnamon and something else, something sweet, welcoming. There's wood in the fireplace, food in the fridge. There's a large Christmas tree, with a few presents underneath it, and homemade decorations hanging from the dark green needles. There are toys on the living room floor. It's a home. A family home. The family gone. Lynn just stands in the doorway, her eyes darting around the familiar space, but now, now it feels strange; no longer safe, no longer perfect; it feels broken.

"Can I?" And she looks up, in the direction of the stairs, not bothering to finish her sentence.

"Yeah." And they follow her, close enough, but staying behind – trying to give her some space – this is the last time. She pauses as she reaches her room, her small hand hovering over the handle. She closes her eyes, shuts them tight and for a moment she pretends she can hear her mom's laugh, her dad's steps – she'd always feel safe when she'd hear them. But she can't. All she hears are hurried breaths, hushed and nervous; on edge. She pushes the door and steps in, her eyes on the floor. When she finally looks up it feels like a dream; it's all too real. Everything is exactly how she remembers it. Her room is exactly the same. They're gone and she still doesn't understand that. They're gone and they're not coming back. And she doesn't quite understand, how, or why. She doesn't understand _never_, because surely they'll come back one day – to see her school play, to see her dance; they have to come back. Never just means, not yet, not for a while. They're just gone now. She wants to cry. It's already been a while. It's been Christmas and New Year, and there was the funeral and they said goodbye, but now – now it's time. She'd like them to come. She's at home. She's here. They always told her that if she got lost, one of them would wait for her at home. But it's quiet. Then she realizes – it's morning. Maybe, maybe they're asleep. And she knows, she knows they're dead – but she doesn't understand. No, she doesn't understand death – it seems too awful to her, too sad. That, that couldn't have happened. She turns around, and runs to their room, pausing at the door. She knocks. They taught her to always knock. No reply. She knocks again. She feels Liv's breath on her neck, as she kneels down next to her.

"Lynn, they're gone. They're not going to answer."

"I have to knock." She says, getting frustrated. They don't understand. Neither of them. She turns around again, ready to go back to her room, to wait.

"You can go in Lynn."

"No. They must be asleep."

He opens the door and steps inside. "Lynn, they're gone."

"You can't go in. You'll wake them up." She yells at him through tears; moving slowly towards him.

"Baby, they died." Liv says, reaching out. She pushes her. She doesn't want to be touched, to be held, to be hugged. She wants her mom. But Liv, she holds on. And she pulls her in, and wraps her arms around the petite body. She fights it. She fights the body that feels foreign; the unfamiliar scent that tickles her nostrils, the breathing that doesn't match her own, that doesn't calm her down. She fights it. But there is love in the touch, the way she's holding on; there's something sweet, reassuring in the scent that lingers, and the breathing is soft and steady, comforting. She gives in: relaxes into the arms, breathes in the scent; tries to steady her own breaths. The hurried whispers in her hair sound different, everything is different; but somehow, somehow in her arms she feels safe. And she can feel Liv easing her grip, as she brings her hands to her face, to wipe away the angry tears. It's already a routine. This. She pushes, and Liv pulls her in; breaks down her walls, her barriers; pushes thought her fears; she holds her, she makes her feel safe. And so does he. They both; they're there – she pushes, but they're always there. And every time she pushes a little bit less. Every time, it's a little bit more familiar.

"They're not coming back." She whispers in Liv's hair. "Not for a while."

She holds her small face in her hands, her thumbs grazing the freckled cheeks, "No, Lynn."

"I thought they'd be here."

"I know baby." And she does. They told her. Told her countless times. That they're gone; that they're not coming back; not soon, not ever – but she couldn't understand. Somewhere, somewhere in the back of her head she thought, she believed they were waiting, waiting here. And she knows, she knows that the girl still believes, despite everything; that they're still coming back – one day. And she will, for a while she'll believe. And the day she stops, the day she finally lets go, will be the day she'll be a child no more. "Let's go pack up your room?" She just nods her head and takes Liv's hand, leading the way.

He watches the whole exchange from the doorway; ready to step in, but giving them space. It's become a routine. She doesn't need him, she's got it. The girl calms down, relaxes into her arms, as her breathing steadies. She realizes, once again, the harsh reality of death, but then once again, it escapes. Her mind unprepared, unable to grasp the concept; the finality of it too elusive. They go to her room, to pack; they're moving her stuff. They've decided. They're moving in with Liv. She needs to stay put because of work; she has enough space; they have a support system there. It makes sense. They've picked a school, they've made a schedule, they can make it work. It's logistics and planning; being punctual, sticking to a program – it's not spontaneous; no overnight trips to Paris, or speeding down the highway as the sun rises; no this is waking up at the same time, and being there at night, it's being available, being responsible – all the time. It's being a grown up. It's dull. But the thing is – it hasn't been. Being with her, with them – it's been many things, but not boring. She's fascinating. Her strength, her confidence, her fragility. She fascinates him. Everything about her enchants him. Everything. The way she argues with him, the way she calls him out, the way she teases him and the way she can't be charmed. But mostly, how she is with Lynn. How quickly she's learning, how quickly she's stepping up, becoming a mom. He steps into their closet and turns on the light. He needs to pack their stuff. Clothes to be put away, clothes to bring with them; clothes from memories, from stories, the ones they want to keep. He gets the boxes from the car and goes to drop some off in Lynn's room. He pauses at the door, listening – they're laughing. She is laughing, the little girl is actually laughing.

"And then your mom puked – all of the ice cream – all over Aunty Jean's Christmas tree."

"She did not!" And she bursts into a fit of laughter again, running her thumb over the smiling face on the photo in her hand.

She looks up sees him standing in the doorway, holding a stack of cardboard boxes, smiling. She waves him in, and Lynn taps the floor next to where she's sitting. "Liv's telling me about the time mom puked all over the Christmas tree, because of all the ice cream she ate."

"I've heard about that." And he grins at Liv. It wasn't ice cream. It was tequila. Abby told him the story when he was trying to get her to do body shots off of a half naked girl, in a bar in Costa Rica. It was when Teddy and her just started dating. It was the first time she mentioned Liv. "Do you know about the time your dad dared me to put on a carrot mask?" She shakes her head, grinning. "Well, he dared me, said it was really dangerous, and of course I couldn't resist, so I grated some carrots and put them on my face, and kept it there for two hours. I was completely orange for three days after that. I won the bet, but I'm orange on our Christmas cards. You should have seen grandpa's face."

"My dad was really smart, huh?"

"Yeah." He says with a wistful smile. "I'll leave you girls to do this, and I'll go sort out the other stuff."

"Fitz…" She calls him as he gets up, and he looks down, giving her a warm smile, "Can you help us pack?" He looks at Liv, that's not what they decided, It will take them longer this way. She just nods her head, mouthing – "It's OK." She needs this. And he sits back down, unfolding a box from the stack, as Liv carries on, telling stories, giving the little girl more memories, more time.

It takes them a few hours to pack up all of her stuff. By the time they're done the room is completely devoid of personality; the only things remaining the white furniture and the soft-pink walls. She doesn't realize when she closes the door that it's the last time; she doesn't commit it to memory; but then there's nothing to commit, it's empty. The room, the way it is right then – it's death; she remembers vignettes of live, and that, that is enough. She joins them in her parents' room and helps pack up the photos; she helps Liv with her mom's jewelry. She lets her try it on – five necklaces at a time; the long string of pearls reaching her belly. Liv lets her try on a couple of pairs of heels, and lets her pick the one that she wants to keep. She lets her touch things, smell things, hold them. She lets her say goodbye to them. Even unconsciously, she lets her do it her own way. She falls asleep on their bed, wrapped up in her dad's jacket. The two of them settle in the closet – emptying shelves and drawers.

"Oh, my god! What an ass!" Instantly, Liv turns around to look at him, quizzically. "He has pot in here! And he told me, the last time I was here, he told me he didn't have any!"

"Seriously, Fitz? You asked him if he had pot. What are you 15 years old?"

"He had it!" He says, pointing at the thick joint, defensively. "Do you have a lighter?" And she just gives him a look instead of answering. "Right." He looks around, shuffling stuff around on the shelf where he found it, but comes up empty. "I'll get one from downstairs."

"You can't smoke pot in their closet!"

"It's not like they'll get mad." She just looks at him, and for a moment she looks like she might start crying, and he internally chastises himself for being a dick, but then, then she starts laughing, uncontrollably – her whole body shaking. The reality of it; the reality of what she's been saying, what she's been trying to explain finally settles in – they're gone and they're not coming back. Not now, not in a while. And it's the most ridiculous thing on the planet. It can't be right. They were young, bright, successful and in love; it can't be right. And she just laughs, because she can no longer cry; her tears have run dry. He lets her, waits for her to calm down; then grabs her hand and takes her downstairs. He grabs a lighter from the kitchen counter and then they go outside into the backyard. He lights it up, then inhales a few times, making sure it's burning just right. He hands it to her, and she inhales. The smoke burns her throat and she coughs, her eyes tear up and her voice gets raspy.

"I feel like I'm in college." She says as she hands him the joint, blowing hot air into her shivering hands.

"You smoked pot in college?" He says, eyeing her as he exhales.

"Nope." She laughs, "I smoked cigarettes a few times. The few times that I felt like I needed to prove that I was cool. And I hated it every single time, I was always freezing, I could never draw it in properly, I was always coughing and it never calmed me."

He crosses over to where she's standing and gives her the joint. He takes her hands in his, rubbing them, blowing the hot air. "The way you draw in properly, you suck the smoke in, and then you breathe it in, you literally breathe the smoke in." He takes it from her hand and brings it to her lips, "OK, now draw in." And she fills her mouth with smoke, before parting her lips, letting him move the joint. "Now, inhale, breathe in, deeply." And she does. It burns her throat, and she can feel the tickling in her lungs, but she doesn't cough. She fights the instinct as she looks at him, his eyes drawing her in; calming. "You don't need to prove anything Liv, you're amazing. And whoever can't, couldn't see that, is an idiot." She just smiles and takes the joint from his hand, inhaling again.

As she exhales she looks at him, tilting her head, smiling. "I don't know what it is. But with you, with you I can be me. I can just be Liv. And I don't know how, or why, because you drive me crazy most of the time, but with you, I'm just me. With you I feel free… I feel free to be me. Is that stupid?"

"No." He tilts his head too, and looks at her – his eyes filled with something resembling – affection? He smiles, but the smile it's the content kind, the unconscious kind, the kind that sneaks up and surprises us. "It's exactly how I feel. It's not stupid." She just looks at him, and she can't look away, she can't blink – there's something in his eyes, something so honest and raw, something that feels like a reflection of her own soul. He's looking at her, her eyes, the specks of gold glimmering in the moonlight; they pull him in, like gravity – he can't look away, there's something so soothing in them, so warm; so familiar – it feels like he's looking into his future, his past, his entire life. She feels herself leaning towards him, and she can see him getting closer, she can feel him closer; his eyes are too close to look into now; his nose touching hers. And she closes her eyes; actively not thinking about anything, anything but his lips, approaching.

Her cellphone rings.

She instantly steps away. All of her reason flooding back. She slides her finger across the screen and brings it to her ear, "Hey, Stephen." And with that she walks back into the house, and heads up. He stays down for another moment, breathing in the chilly air, trying to suppress the twinge of jealousy he felt when she said - Stephen. He presses the joint on the concrete and watches the light get squashed. He, too, heads inside. He finds her in the closet, and it's awkward for a moment; but then she pulls out a drawer and makes a face. He looks down and yells, "A little warning Liv."

"I can't believe we found their stash!"

"I can't believe they had a stash."

"A drawer of porn. Joint porn. And tools. And books. Oh god, things that I never wanted to know."

"Wait, is that Fifty Shades?" She just nods her head, pulling it out, opening it on a random page. She starts reading it in a seductive voice, bursting into laughter on the second word. And he can't help himself, but laugh as well. They think it's the pot, kicking in; but really, it's the company.

By the time they're done it's already the middle of the night. They carry the last of the boxes down; completely sober by now. He picks Lynn up from the bed and carries her to the car, strapping her in to the back seat. She turns off the lights, and closes the door, putting the key in the lock. But her hand just lingers, frozen. She feels him, his warmth, his breath on her neck; he puts his hand over hers and turns. There's a click, finality in it. She turns around and sees a tear rolling down his cheek. It finally hit him – the finality. The ending. The meaning of _never_. Of never seeing them again; never talking to his brother; never being stupid with him, never being challenged by him; never. He finally understands that never is not abstract, never is a lifetime, and that – that is too much. She kisses his cheek, kissing away the tear. And then the other one; her hands around his neck, her thumbs on his jaw. She kisses the corner of his lips, a lone tear clinging to it. She kisses the other one. The tears are gone. She closes her eyes; his long shut, and she kisses his lips, softly. She lingers for a moment, and then pulls away. She takes his hand, "Let's go, " and leads him towards the cars, "We're listening to the GPS on the way back."

"No way! I know how to get back."

"Not a discussion, Fitzgerald!" She says before she closes the door, straps in her phone, and calls him.

"Hi."

"Hi." And they turn on the engines, and drive – away from the house, from their lives; from the future that wasn't, from the past.

The cars speed by them, like comets in the darkness; signs of good luck. The sound of his voice, his breathing, keeping her company. "I really think you should re-consider."

"No! It's a good school."

"It's all girls."

"It's a good school." She says, grinning wildly.

"She won't have any boy friends."

"She's six. She'll deal. She'll meet them elsewhere. She needs to do extracurricular stuff anyway."

"She needs to play."

"She needs to get into a good college. Great college."

"With boys, or does it have to be all girls again."

"Oh, my god! Would you drop it! I went to an all girls' school and I turned out just fine."

"Well now…" He manages to utter between laughs.

"Oh, shut up!"

They both laugh.

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**Again, thank you all so much for reading this story and being so incredibly supportive. I LoveLoveLove reading your reviews, so let me know what you think. Next up - trying to live together, and a bit of jealous Olitz. **


	4. The Baby Whales

**Well hello there - it's been a lifetime of a Cicada since the last time I updated (they live between 3-6 weeks). Anyways, sorry about that, but this chapter is pretty long, so hopefully I'll be forgiven by the end of it. Enjoy, my lovelies. **

* * *

"Keys. Keys. Crap. Keys." She mumbles under her breath as she rummages through her bag; shaking it, then listening intently for the sound of familiar metal clinking. Nothing. "Crap."

"Looking for these?" She freezes. She can't look at him, let alone talk to him. She kissed him. She kissed him and she like it. She kissed him and now she can't look at him without thinking about the way his tongue tasted; she can't talk to him without staring at his lips, without licking hers. She's losing her mind, slowly and it's both terrifying and infuriating. She turns around, staring at the floor, fingering her sweater nervously. "Your keys?" She just nods her head and stretches out a shaky hand. He crosses the room in a few swift steps, until he's standing in her personal space. His scent is overwhelming – the familiar cologne, fresh and masculine and so very him; and she feels his breaths, they tickle her skin, she hears him chuckle softly, it makes her breath hitch and her mouth widen into an involuntary smile. He reaches for her hand and somehow, despite all logic, his touch – it still feels like the first time; the electricity still surges through her, the power of it still makes her lightheaded. The cool of the metal keys against the heated skin; against the burning skin. His fingers linger, and his thumb brushes against her knuckles and before she can think better of it – she's looking up at him. A pair of grey eyes alight.

"Thanks." But she doesn't move away; she doesn't even move her hand. And he just looks at her; he's staring at her lips, and she's staring at his. Their eyes meet. And it's fire and ice, confusion and familiarity; passion and tenderness, all at once. They blush. She blinks, furiously, trying to focus, think of anything, anything other than his damn lips. But her mind, for all its intellectual capacity, all it's well-established brilliance – is blank.

"We should talk about the ki-" It breaks the spell instantly and she cuts him off, before he can even finish.

"I have to go." She turns around, throwing her keys in her bag, than cursing under her breath as she goes back to rummaging through it.

"Liv…" He calls out tenderly, his voice vulnerable, pleading.

"I have a surgery thing." She stammers, her voice foreign in her ears. "A surgery. Um, thing, operating… Yeah. I have that." He just nods his head, but she can sense his disappointment; she can see the hurt in his eyes. It stings. Knowing she caused it; it stings. "We'll talk tonight?" It's out there; she's said it before she could stop herself, before she could think better of it – she just wanted to leave him with a smile on his face, even if it is faint, barely there.

"OK."

She reaches for the handle "Her lunch is on the counter, so just don't forget it before you guys leave; she finishes an hour early today, first day and all, so-"

"Yeah, I'll try not to forget to pick her up." He says as he rolls his eyes. "You should go. Don't want to miss your surgery-thing." And he finally flashes her a grin; it's a small courtesy, letting her know they're OK, he's not mad. She smiles back.

"There's fresh coffee in the pot."

"Thanks." And their eyes just linger; for another moment. Neither blinks. Neither breathes. Her pager beeps. And with that she's stumbling out the door, uttering something – a word vomit; a sound vomit really. She keeps pressing the elevator button until the loud ding sounds; she tries to focus on the flashing numbers instead of the heat in her cheeks and her suddenly very limited vocabulary. She doesn't realize she's forgotten her coat until she's shivering in the frisk winter wind. She doesn't go back. She can't. She doesn't recognize herself, not around him; it's like she's a completely different being. She can handle the cold; she knows it; she can predict it; unlike the heat.

/

"I'm out of here. Done. Finito. Leaving." She exclaims triumphantly as she hands him the heavy chart.

"Please. Don't hide your excitement." He retorts following her in step. "Rub it in, to the rest of us mere mortals who can't get away, because we don't have a cute little orphan that our boss has a soft-spot for, at home."

"I cannot believe you just said that." She sounds offended, but she doesn't even try to hide her grin.

"Really? Because, it's totally something I'd say. I mean I love you for thinking I'm a better human being than that but Liv, I'm not, really."

"Clearly."

"Now in all seriousness," and his tone shifts, it's no longer playful, it's concerned, caring, "how are you doing?"

"OK."

"Liv. You can talk to me."

"I know… but I just. It's a lot. I'm raising my best friend's kid, who's been through hell, and I feel like I'm screwing her up more and more every single day. And the only person who could give me advice is gone. And then, there's him. He's everywhere, all the time, Stephen. He's in my kitchen and his stuff is in my bathroom, and in my living room, he has all these opinions about everything. And he is so stubborn. And he is so damn charming; he can just charm me into right about anything. And I keep losing fights to him. And it's infuriating. He is infuriating. But then he's so great with Lynn and he has this way of knowing what's on my mind and he's amazing, and that, that is even more infuriating. It's just… too much." She ends with an exasperated sigh, as she slams shut her locker.

"Oh-my-god! You're falling for him!"

"No, I'm not!" It doesn't come out as strong as she intended it to. Her arm is stuck in her sweater, and her hair is in her mouth; the words are breathy and soft; an admission, rather than a rebuttal.

"Right." And he just gives her a knowing look; not blinking. If he wasn't so handsome, it would border on creepy.

"I'm not." She shakes her head, as if to confirm the veracity of her words. But it achieves nothing of the sort; the soft smile lingering on her lips speaks louder than the words she keeps uttering; words she's trying desperately to believe. She grabs her bag from his hands and heads to the locker-room door.

"Where's your coat?"

"Oh, I left it at home." She says casually; her eyes on the floor, as she holds open the door.

"Why? It's two degrees outside."

"Oh, just… it's good for circulation."

"Freezing to death is good for circulation?"

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?"

"This guy is really messing with your head, huh?"

"I don't know what you're talking abou-" And the beeping of her pager cuts her off. "No! I was so, so close!" And she slaps his arm, before running her hand down her tired face.

"Just go, I'll take it."

"You sure?"

But before he can respond, "Liv, I'm sorry, I know you were leaving, but it's an emergency. I need you in the ER, STAT." Cy shouts as he rushes past them. A vein dangerously pulsing on his forehead. She takes off her sweater and hands it to Steven together with her bag, as she ties her hair into a high ponytail.

"Can you just… Can you let Fitz know I'll be late please?" He just nods his head. She takes a deep breath, then sprints off down the hallway.

"Dr. Pope!" A nurse calls out as soon as she steps into the busy room.

"Fill me in, Quinn."

"A nine year-old. Hit by a car. Multiple fractures and extensive internal injuries. His right pupil is dilated.

"CT?"

"Still waiting. They're very busy." She says apologetically, avoiding eye-contact completely.

"Quinn! This is a priority! Call down and tell them I'm coming." She takes the stethoscope from around her neck as she approaches the bed.

"Are you Sam's doctor?" A panicky voice and a shaky hand stop her before she can reach the patient. A pair of blood-shut blue eyes greets her as she turns around.

"Yes I am. But I really need to examine your son, Mrs…?"

"Marano." The woman says, shaking her head. "Is he, is he going to be OK? He has to be OK." She pulls on her arm, as if she's holding on for dear life.

"Linda! Let the doctor go!"

"Do not tell me what to do John!" She howls back, at the tall man.

"Well it makes no difference anyway! I mean you know the best. All the time. You always know the best!"

"Do not start with me now! If you weren't too busy criticizing me, you would have been watching him. You would have been paying attention to him! He wouldn't have ended up under a car!"

"Look! I really need to examine your son, so can you take this someplace else! Or maybe, just cut it out completely. " Her tone is flat and icy and does the trick. The woman is no longer gripping her arm tightly; and the man is opening and closing his mouth, but no sounds leave his body.

"The CT's ready!"

"Thanks Quinn! OK, let's roll him!"

There's something calming about the CT. The soft humming, the quietness that surrounds it. But then, there's also something so unnerving – the cramped space; the anticipation; the knowledge that it holds the answers to problems they haven't even grasped yet. And then there's the moment when the image appears on the screen and the heart skips a beat. And then there's the rush. A rush to operate; to cut; to repair. A race against time; to do more, to do better; to save a life. A rush. It's steady hands and the smell of cauterized flesh; it's red, all the red; and the quiet power.

"Mr. and Mrs. Marano!" She calls out as she peels her scrub cap off. The two figures approach – all slouched shoulders, puffy eyes and lips swollen from nervous biting. "He's made it. He's going to be OK. He's in the ICU now. You'll be able to see him shortly." And the man sighs, tears of relief falling from his eyes. The woman pulls her in for a hug, uttering soft – thank yous – into her hair. Liv just pats her back, repeating – He's going to be OK. It takes a while for her to hear it; to let herself believe it. She steps away from the embrace and looks at Liv, before hanging her head and staring at her feet.

"You can judge me. I'm judging me. It's my fault. What happened to him."

"I'm not. And it's not. It was an accident. They happen."

"No. This, this is on me. His dad and I, we're divorcing. And we got so stuck in our little world of resentments and arguments; we were so blinded by our own hurt that we literally lost sight of him. He ran into a street, and we didn't notice. We were too busy shouting. I just… somewhere along the line, I let myself get lost in this thing and… it almost killed him."

/

It's almost 2am when she finally stumbles in, earphones in her ears; her scrubs sticking to her sweaty body; her eyelids barely open. Tired, tired was hours ago; this is a whole other level of exhaustion, a level that requires a quick shower and a warm bed. She drops her bag to the floor, and pulls her sweater lazily over her head, throwing it on the couch – the laundry basket can wait. She pauses the song, as she opens the bathroom door. Why is the light on?

"Oh my god! I am so sorry!" She practically yells as she drops her iPod to the floor, bringing her hands to cover her mouth. "I didn't realize you were in here."

He turns around, grinning, desperately trying not to laugh at her reaction as he wraps a towel around his naked body, slowly, _very_ slowly. "Don't worry about it."

But her eyes are no longer on his; no, now they're resting on the bulge rising under his towel. She can't look away. She's staring at his crotch, her breathing getting shallow, and she knows, she knows he's noticed, because she's being anything but subtle; and she knows he's now staring at her, she can feel his eyes burning her skin. And he's moving towards her, until he's in her personal space; and his hands are on her hips, and she's grinding against him. And then he's lifting her up on the sink and she's kissing him – and it's rushed and it's deep; and they don't breathe; no they forget all about breathing. And his towel is on the ground, and her scrubs are being untied and then – a scream. And they freeze, his hand resting on her thigh, his thumb massaging it softly. He kisses her cheek, and grabs the towel from the floor, "I'll get her." And with that he's gone.

And the reality, everything rushes back; sinks in. She showers, the cold water numbing, calming. He's waiting for her on the couch, his navy shirt wet around his chest – she's been crying again.

"We can't do this?"

"Have sex?"

"Have sex, kiss, do anything. We, we need to be there for Lynn."

"Who says we can't be there for Lynn, and be together?"

"Be together? We can't be together. We both have the emotional maturity of baby whales!"

"Actually, whales have been found to have the same emotion-producing brain cells that we have, so that analogy really isn't great."

"Fitz! That's hardly the point."

"Maybe emotional maturity of a goldfish. No, nope, that's not it. That's the memory of a goldfish. What's a really immature animal?"

"Ftiz!" She finally shouts, and instantly he's focused and back to being 35-going-on-3. "See. This is case in point. We can't be together. We can't date. And we can't just have sex, because sooner or later it will get messy. Whatever we do, it will get messy. We'll get lost in the mess and our emotions; we'll get messy and selfish and we'll lose the sight of Lynn and then she'll end up getting hit by a truck and she'll die. She can't die. We can't screw her up!" And she's sobbing, before she even has time to process what's happening; what she's saying; she's sobbing and shaking, and she can't breathe. Her lungs are constricting and her chest hurts; and the breaths they get lost in the back of her throat. She can't breathe, the panic suddenly overwhelming; her unspoken fear finally out there; filling the space between them. He's scooping her up before she knows it, carrying her to the kitchen and sitting her down on the counter as he pulls out a paper bag. He gives it to her and she instinctually opens her legs, letting him step between them, resting her forehead on his shoulder. He just massages small circles on her back. Her breathing finally steadies, and she utters a broken, "Sorry," trying desperately not to look at him.

He lifts up her head with his finger and kisses her temple tenderly, "Don't ever apologize for letting me in." She just nods her head and he helps her off the counter. She turns around in the doorway and smiles; mouthing a "Good night."

* * *

He hears her cursing under hear breath and smiles to himself.

"Looking for your keys again?"

"No, I'll have you know I'm actually looking for my ID." She says, as she shakes her bag once again.

He walks over to the couch, and picks up her sweater, smiling as his fingers run into the cool plastic. "Wouldn't be this one, would it?" He's not even trying to hide his cocky grin as he takes in her face – frustration that _he_ found it, mixed with relief that she hasn't lost it.

"Give that to me." She says bitterly, as she snatches it from his hand, shaking her head. "And stop looking so smug about it. It's an ID, it's not like you saved the planet."

"Well the number of times you said – crap – while looking for it; you could have fooled me."

"I realize now that mornings are your – funny time."

"I don't have a 'funny time'. I'm hilarious all the time. My sense of humor has no connection to the solar movements."

"Yeah. OK." She says, trying her hardest to keep on a straight face.

"I don't! I wake up and instantly, I'm Charlie Chaplin!"

"Well, your cockiness sure as hell, doesn't have any connection to solar movements. It's omnipresent."

"Aren't you running late?"

"Actually, I am." She says grinning; clearly she's under an impression that she's won this morning.

"You taking your coat this morning?" And her smile deflates instantly; her cheeks turning red.

"I left it intentionally. It's good for circulation. It's this new thing I'm trying." And with that she's opening the door, wrapping her arms around her body, hugging her sweater tightly. "Goodbye Fitz." He just laughs as she slams the door shut. She's the most stubborn person he's ever met. And it's infuriating. She's infuriating. And she's so damn charming. And he can't stop thinking about her lips and the feel of her skin under his fingertips; the texture of her tongue against his. Infuriating.

"Morning Fitz." A soft voice breaks him out of his thoughts.

"Morning C." And he picks the little girl and swings her on his back, holding her in place with one arm, as he shuffles around the kitchen cabinets with the other one. "So what can I get you for breakfast this fine morning, m'lady?"

And she giggles, patting his shoulder lightly. "I'll have Eggos with Nutella and a white coffee, please."

"Coming right up."

He makes her cocoa and pretends it's coffee. She eats while he reads papers and gives her words to spell.

"So are you and Liv a boyfriend and a girlfriend?"

He chokes on his coffee, coughing until it's dripping out of his nose. He wipes his face with a napkin, then asks, inhaling deeply, "Why would you say that?"

"Well she's the last person you see before going to bed, and the first one you see in the morning. And she gave you her cookie."

"She what? She didn't give… How did you?" He stammers out, looking into the girl's eyes.

"I saw her do it when we were moving. You guys were packing in the closet and she gave you her cookie. And it was a really good cookie as well." The girl replies, patting his hand reassuringly.

"Oh, right. An actual cookie."

"What do you mean?" Her eyes widen, the discussion seemingly going down a path she could find interesting.

"Oh nothing. Yeah, C, it was a really good cookie."

"So does that mean she's your girlfriend?"

"No. We're just friends."

"But you always smile when she's around, or when she calls or when she texts you. And my friend Amber says that that means you like her. Her dad has a girlfriend. And his girlfriend always gives him cookies too. But Amber says that that's probably because she has an eating disorder. Is that bad? Does Liv have that?" And suddenly it's a million questions being fired at him and he has no idea how to stop it, or even pause it for long enough to begin to answer.

"C! Liv's fine. She's great. But we're not dating. We're friends. Now… just finish your breakfast."

She takes another bite and chews slowly, her face pensive. "So if you're friends, does that mean you're not having sex?" And he spits his coffee out again. "Because Amber said that her dad and his girlfriend started off as friends. But then they had sex. That's what her mom told her, when she visited her in rehab."

"OK. Now. First off, I want you to stop hanging out with Amber. Secondly, do you even know what 'having sex' is?"

"Well Amber says it's just dancing strange and yelling loudly, and then you're really happy."

"OK. Definitely stop hanging out with Amber-"

"But her dad's girlfriend was going to take us to Sephora to look at makeup."

"C, listen to me very carefully. Her dad's girlfriend is never, ever, taking you anywhere. And no, Liv and I are not having sex, and please, for the love of god don't say sex for another 10 years and-" A beeping of his phone interrupts him and he grins as he reads the text – _Stop playing around and get ready, or she'll be late_. "Time to get ready. We're leaving in 15 minutes. And I will check, personally, that you've brushed your teeth."

"OK." She says happily as she jumps off the chair. "Say hi to Liv." And she grins before skipping off to her room.

"C?"

"Yeah?" She asks pausing at her door.

"Would you mind if Liv and I were a boyfriend and girlfriend?"

She thinks about it for a moment, then tilts her head, smiling, "No. Not really. As long as I could have both your cookies."

/

He walks into the hospital, two avocado salads in a paper bag; special delivery from her favorite place. He needs to see her and talk to her, really talk to her. Because yesterday, she talked and then, well then she had a meltdown, and admittedly it took him a little bit by surprise; so he didn't tell her; he didn't tell her that this, them, it could work; they could make it work. Sure, she's worried about Lynn, and… He finally understands – that's not it. He's standing in the lobby, looking in; the glass doors opening and closing. She's in_ his_ arms, in a tight embrace, her head buried in the crook of his neck; his hands resting low on her back, as he whispers something into her hair. It makes sense. The phone-calls at all hours of night and day, the fact that _he_ called him yesterday to say that she was running late; her insistence that she doesn't want a relationship. This isn't about Lynn; it's about him, not being good enough. It's about her, having a guy; a guy who doesn't have the emotional maturity of a baby whale, a guy who is there, all the time; who doesn't say weird things and who doesn't fight her on everything. It feels like his insides are sinking, and his throat is burning, his head pounding. It feels like everything is crashing and there's nothing he can do about it. He lost her, before they even started. He turns around, dumps the bags in the trash and walks out into the crisp winter afternoon. He takes his phone out and hovers over a name for a moment. He shakes his head – it's not revenge; it's not about her – this, this is just who he is.

/

He's ready to go when she comes back. He hears Lynn running towards the door to greet her, he hears her laugh as she tickles her. He hears her ask about him. And he smiles, he smiles before he can stop himself. He still cares. More than he should; more than he's allowed to. He grabs his jacket from the bed and steps into the living room.

"Hey, you're back." He says in a cool tone, trying to keep his emotions in check. All of them, the irrational anger, the disappointment, the joy that he can't control, the joy of merely being in her presence.

"Yeah, you going somewhere?"

"Meeting an old friend."

"Oh. OK." And she tries to smile, but it's faint, sad; disappointment in her eyes not matching the curve of her lips. She seems hurt, and for a millisecond it makes him happy; but then, there's the burning twinge of guilt. He suppresses it, extinguishes it.

"I'll see you tomorrow C." And he kisses the girl's cheek. He stops for a moment as he passes Liv, inhaling her scent. He can't help it, even if she's not his to have. Then, then he just walks away.

The girl is nice enough. Dark hair and blue eyes. She's smart. But it's dry smart, ivy-league mind. She smiles, but it's not like Liv's smile; it doesn't radiate happiness, it doesn't make his heart melt. And her laugh, it's too high-pitched and too formal; she doesn't close her eyes, or throw her head back. And she doesn't stop him when he says something stupid; she doesn't roll her eyes and she doesn't make fun at him. She pretends he's smarter than he is, and they both know it. He's with her, and he feels so lonely. He drinks. One, two, three, and is it a double or a single, does it matter really; just keep them coming. And the ice clinking makes her voice sound warmer; it makes her presence enjoyable. And she grabs his hand as they stumble into the street; and he holds on, because he fears that otherwise, he could drift away, drift into the nothingness. And then they're in an alley and she's grabbing his crotch, and he's kissing her; and temporarily he doesn't feel like he's drowning.

* * *

She smiles to herself as she hears his door open. "You wouldn't happen to know where I left my phone?" She asks as she shakes her bag, yet again.

"Sorry." Her hands freeze and she looks up, suddenly lightheaded. "Fitz is asleep. I just got up to get some water. You must be Liv." And a leggy brunette walks over, his shirt barely covering her ass, and she extends her hand, "I'm Mellie." Liv just nods, speechless. She feels sucker-punched. "I know this is awkward. We would have gone to my place, but he said he had to drop Lynn off at school this morning." And she gives her a small smile, clearly aware that she stepped into something, but unsure of what it is.

"It's really not a problem." She says weakly. She grabs her coat from the hanger and turns to leave. "There's coffee in the pot."

It feels like her insides are sinking, and her throat is burning, her head pounding. It feels like everything is crashing and there's nothing she can do about it. She lost him, before they even started. As she steps outside she shivers. And she can't handle this cold; it's paralyzing.

* * *

**Before you decide you hate me - the story is called - Grow Up, so you know, they have to be a little immature in the beginning. And you know, it's cute, endearing even, most of the time. But yes, I agree, Mellie needs to go away. And she will. Pinky promise. **

**Now, please let me know your thoughts, I LOVELOVELOVE reading them. I really, really do. And it really gets me going and back into writing. So yeah, it really helps. ANd your support for this story has been incredible, and amazing and mind-blowing. So thank you. **

**(And I sincerely apologize for this a/n. I'm just high on writing. I've been typing for five hours straight and I've reached the stage when my fingers are quicker than my brain).**


	5. Gnawing Guilt (Pt I)

A soft creek of the door, bare feet on the wooden floor, bed shifting, an unfamiliar body next to his. She places her head on his chest, but it feels heavy, like a burden. He can't breathe. He stirs lightly and opens his eyes slowly, involuntarily. He doesn't want to face her, but more than that he doesn't want to face himself.

He clears his throat and she just murmurs, "good morning handsome," into his chest, without actually lifting her head.

"Morning Mellie." He says, somewhat dryly; unmoved by her affection. He needs to get up, he needs to get her out of bed and on her way before Liv wakes up and sees her, and even more importantly before Lynn sees her and decides to grill him on the intricacies of their relationship. "We should get up." He says somewhat casually, as he tries to prop himself on his elbows, but she still seems determined not to move her head. _Karma_, he thinks to himself. "Um, Mellie. I really need to shower and you should go, you know, before Lynn wakes up. She's very fragile right now and you know, strangers just freak her out." Lies. All lies. But whatever helps him to get her out.

She looks up and for a moment she seems hurt, shadows flash in the icy blue eyes, but it's an instant, the sorrow quickly gone, replaced by the perfect poker face; unreadable and unnerving. "Of course." It's a flat tone, emotionless, and she smiles as she sits up, a perfectly measured smile, the practiced kind. She picks her clothes up from the floor, and heads to the bathroom, but then pauses at the door. "There's coffee in the pot," she smiles at his panicked expression, but this time, this time it seems almost happy, "at least that's what Liv said."

"Wait, you saw Liv?" And she just nods and grins.

"She seems lovely, Fitz."

There is something venomous in her voice, a tone he hasn't heard before. It instantly gets him on the defensive, and before he can stop himself he's saying, "She is. She is amazing."

She goes to the bathroom without another word and he heads to the kitchen. He needs coffee. His head is pounding and he doesn't know if it's the scotch, or his conscience, or maybe both. He can't believe he slept with her, he can't believe he brought her here; he can't believe she spoke to Liv. She must have decided to leave early, to avoid him and instead she got the queen of passive-aggressive in all her unclad glory. Gnawing guilt spreads though his body like venomous paralysis. He can't breathe. His throat dry, the coffee tastes like ash; his mind blank. A single thought overtaking his mind – he fucked up. A small voice breaks him out.

"Fitz… I had another bad dream." She's standing there in her spaceship PJs, teddy bear in hand, her small fist rubbing her eye sleepily. He puts his coffee down on the counter, instantly forgetting all about Mellie, suppressing the guilt in a corner of his mind reserved for self-resentment and pity and he scoops her up in his arms, running his fingers though her long ginger hair. He walks over to the window, the city lights stretching as far as he can see; the pink sky putting out the faint stars.

"Tell me about it." It's become a routine. He's the only one who can calm her down after her nightmares. Liv, Liv can do everything else, but this, this one thing – that's just on him.

"I was in the car with mommy and daddy and mommy was singing. And we were all laughing. And she let me sing too. She told me the words and she let me sing. And daddy was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. And mommy and I were dancing. And then there was a crash and it all went white." And it breaks his heart, because this, this is the part where she begins to cry, the part that makes her cry every single time, and there's nothing, nothing he can do – and he _has _tried, to prevent it; to stop it; he just has to let her be. "And, and I kept calling and there was no one." And she can barely breathe, her whole body is shaking. "I was all alone. And it was all white and there was no one." She's gripping onto him tighter, clutching to his t-shirt, holding on for dear life. "I couldn't find my way home. And I was all alone."

"It was just a bad dream, C." He whispers as he runs his hand through her hair and down her back. "Just a bad dream. You're not alone. You have me and you have Liv, and uncle Cy, and your grandparents, and Mrs. Bear. And none of us are going anywhere." Instead of responding, she just nuzzles her head further into his neck, as if the proximity will somehow guarantee security. "And you know, Liv and I love you so much. And you'll always have us. Always. Forever and ever and ever and ever and…"

"OK." She says with a small chuckle, lifting her head. But then her expression changes, the smile quickly fading, "You promise?" And the insecurity, the plea in her voice breaks his heart, it makes him feel powerless and useless – he can't take her fear away, can't take away her pain; all he can do is hold her and watch her struggle.

"I promise." To her, in that moment, it's enough. But to him, it seems insignificant, it feels like failing, like letting her down, letting _them_ down. "Want to pick a building and I'll tell you a story about it?" And she smiles, turning around in his arms to look out the window. She takes in the skyline, her eyes darting left and right, until she finally points to the Chrysler. "Again?" And she just nods her head, as she puts her thumb in her mouth and puts her teddy bear on his shoulder, under her head. "OK, then. Well it's the queen of all buildings in New York City, and you know why, C?"

"Because it has a crown?" She says without lifting her head; the sound muffled by her thumb. It makes him smile. A moment in which she is still, merely, a child.

Before he can continue, a voice he's forgotten about calls out from the bathroom, "I used your robe, I hope you don't…" And she trails off as she takes in the scene – him holding a tiny creature, all red hair and puffy eyes, in his arms; he, whispering to her softly. When she speaks again, her voice sounds different, soft even. "Hey, you must be Lynn." And the little girl nods her head, her eyes darting between the two adults. Momentarily she's forgotten all about the story, all about her dream; the awkwardness in the room, and his rapid heartbeat clearly more interesting.

"And who are you?" She asks, as she takes her appearance in, tilting her head as her eyes examine every inch of her body.

Mellie shifts her weight, and looks at the floor, clearly uncomfortable, "I'm Fitz' friend, Mellie." She finally says, with a small smile.

"What are you doing here?" The girl shoots back, curiosity making her forget all about her manners.

Both adults turn scarlet, their minds racing. "Well," Fitz starts off, gingerly, "we had a sleepover, C."

"Oh-My-God! REALLY?" She's looking at him, grinning, and he can see the wheels in her head turning; he knows there's an avalanche of questions coming. "Did you have pizza and candy and cupcakes?" And she looks at Mellie expectantly, but she looks as terrified as he feels, and just smiles helplessly.

"No, we didn't, C. We had some adult drinks."

"So no hot chocolate?" She sounds disappointed, but there's hope in her eyes as she looks at him quizzically.

"No, no hot chocolate." He retorts, trying desperately not to laugh when her face falls.

"Well, did you play any games? Like Candy hunt… or Twister! I love twister, we always play that when I go to sleepovers."

Mellie's face is bright scarlet, and he can't help but grin at how uncomfortable she seems. "No, no games, C."

"But that sounds really boring. I mean what _were _you doing?"

"How about some pancakes?" He holds his breath, praying to the various gods that might be in the universe to give him a break.

"Did Liv join you for the sleepover?"

"No! No, she didn't!" His voice comes out high-pitched and panicky and it just makes her dig deeper.

"So is that why she was upset last night?"

And his heart sinks instantly; the gnawing guilt rearing its ugly head again. The conversation is no longer amusing or entertaining, now he just wants to end it, change topics; talk about anything else, anything other than all the ways in which he screwed up since last night. "How about chocolate chip pancakes? We could do that?" He tries desperately.

She senses the plea in his voice, the instant shift from playfulness to the quiet hurt, the hurt that simmers under the surface, the hurt so esoteric to her, because it's the hurt that comes with adulthood. "Can I have coffee too?" She asks, cupping his cheek gently; the Grant blue eyes looking at him. Sometimes she reminds him so much of Teddy. The way she furrows her brows when she's concentrating; the way she purses her lips when she's pouting; how she runs, almost skipping; how she sleeps, on her back, sprawled out on the bed. But more than anything else, it's the eyes – bright blue, almost grey on a cloudy day; the eyes that hold the hurt of old age, yet somehow, also the youthful innocence; the eyes that challenge and dare; eyes that see into his heart, past the scars; eyes that bare his soul down. And the way she's looking at him now; tender and concerned; it's the same look, the same one Teddy gave him that evening, the evening when he asked him about Liv, the evening he got the number and memorized it; the evening he wrote that text he never sent. He blinks a couple of times, trying to get the image out of his head; trying to forget; trying to suppress the feeling that he constantly lives with – that it should have been him; that would have been fair; that would have made sense. Teddy should be holding her now, he should be making her breakfast; he should be telling her stories; he should be watching her grow up. He was the better guy, the better son; the better one. He blinks and he shakes his head, but the feeling, it lingers – it never goes away.

The only time he stopped wishing it was him in the car was that nigh; the night they kissed; the night he kissed her like his life depended on it. She never knew, it did.

"Yeah, you can have coffee." He says smiling weakly, as he heads to the kitchen. He looks at Mellie as he passes her, and he finally understands – why he called her yesterday. She's the only person he knows who's better at hiding her feelings than him; the only one whose mask covers her scars more impeccably; she's the only one who can veil the toxic self-loathing as seamlessly as him – the only one who understands the full depth of it. And in that moment he feels sorry, sorry for her, for the way he treated her. "You want to join us Mel?"

She seems surprised, taken aback; but she covers it up, quickly, a master of her trade, "I should get going." And she smiles at him – for the first time it seems genuine, warm even. And he can't help, but smile back.

"OK."

He makes pancakes and Lynn helps him out: she eats. She stays quiet for a while, her mind busy, trying to understand things, to understand the little signs, the shadows in his eyes. "Did you not have fun?" He looks at her over his papers, confused. "Last night. At your sleepover. Did you not have a good time?"

"Not really, no." He says, pretending to look back at the papers, anything to stop the conversation from continuing.

"Well, I hope I'll have a better time tonight with Amber." And it does the trick, he's lowering his papers on the table, staring at her – flabbergasted. "Liv said she could come over for a sleepover." She explains, smiling mischievously.

* * *

**A couple of things: I'm team Olitz, all the way. Now I know some of you are screaming BUT YOU JUST MADE HIM SMILE AT MELLIE - but I want to try this thing, this thing where Fitz and Mellie are friends. I have a theory that they'd make great friends and that she could help him heal in some ways that Liv can't. And that's OK. Because Liv is his soulmate and he'll figure that out eventually, but he might need some help getting there. Actually, if this chapter is any indication, he'll need a whole lot of help. Because boy, he has some demons. I just wanted to explore a messed up Fitz in one of my fics, because all the other ones focus more on Liv's dark side. **

**But now, the next chapter... It was meant to be one chapter with this, but I wanted to keep my word and update today, so the sleepover and Olitz having "the talk" will be updated in the next couple of days. And let's just say, it will be a little bit less angst and a little bit more fun... and well - meeting Amber in all her glory for the first time (and *drumroll* the girlfriend).**

**Anyways, I know that some of you probably didn't like this, and that's OK. Let me know what you thought anyway. Your reviews really inspire me... And see - they do the trick, I'm updating more regularly :))**


	6. Gnawing Guilt (Pt II)

**OK, so part 2 - Liv's PoV. Sorry it took forever, and then some to update. And Sheree - thanks for the pep-talk :)**

* * *

As the elevator climbs her heart beats faster with each flashing number. She's angry. So incredibly angry. She's had 10 hours to calm down and she's still seething. She's angry that he brought her back. She's angry that he slept with her. She's angry that he let her spend the night. But mostly, she's angry that she cares; she's angry that she was on the verge of crying this morning; she's angry that she let him get under her skin.

She fingers her key nervously, pressing her thumb into the ridged metal. She paces in front of the door, trying to ready herself to open it. She stares at her feet as they move along the carpeted floor; in loops – large and small, but always leading to the same place. Always leading to her reaching for the door knob, then moving her hand back, until it's hanging by her side. And she's pacing again. She needs to pull herself together. She needs to get her eyes to stop tearing up, and her lip to stop quivering and her voice to stop cracking. She needs to find a way to hide that she cares; to cover up how deep he's cut. She leans her back against the cool hallway wall and closes her eyes. Inhaling. She has no right to be angry – she rejected him, and he hooked up with someone else; she never said he couldn't bring girls over – she – she has no right to be angry; _she_ made sure of it. But that, that knowledge, the recognition, it doesn't make her feel better; it just makes her feel more empty.

The elevator door dings and two familiar voices flood the small space. She looks up, just in time to see him rooted in spot; looking at her – his expression a mix of concern, panic, and something resembling – guilt?

"What are you-" He starts off in a soft tone.

"I just… forgot my key." She lies, pressing the, now warm, metal further into her skin. He looks at her hands, and sees her grip tighten. His jaw clenches, and he lowers his eyes to the floor as he walks to the door. Lynn lets go of his hand and walks over to where she's standing, giving her a big hug, before taking her hand and leading her inside.

"We went to buy stuff for tonight." She says cheerfully as Fitz drops the bags on the kitchen counter.

Liv just looks at him confused, then as her eyes dart over the stack of nauseating food a realization dawns on her, "Amber," she whispers; more to herself.

"Lynn said you OK-ed it?" He asks, panicking; it's like he feels the eggshells under his feet cracking.

"I have. Last night." She replies coolly, "I've just… had a lot on my mind." And with that she's walking to the counter and helping him unpack; avoiding eye contact. But she can feel the skin at the back of her neck burning, she can feel him staring; she feels the heat radiating off his body.

"How do I fix this?" His hot breath tickles her ear. And she's trapped between his body and the kitchen counter. She shivers. She can feel his chest, almost touching her back. And she wants to lean into him; feel his heartbeat. She wants him to move his arms from the counter and put them on her hips, she wants him to stop hovering just above her shoulder and kiss it. She wants him to make her forget, to make her forgive. She turns her head around slowly, trying to look up at him. And he's close, so impossibly close; their noses are almost touching; their lips parting slowly, as they inhale each other's breaths; their eyes locked in a duel – of questions and accusations; apologies and explanations. She lifts her hand off the counter, shakily bringing it up to his face, but before she can feel the familiar skin under her fingertips the doorbell rings.

And the spell is broken. She's looking at the floor; her hand delving back into the depths of grocery bags. He steps back, and she feels the coolness of the air engulf her body. She hates it.

"They're here." Lynn chimes and they just smile, weakly.

"Yeah, let's go get the door." She walks past him, and she sees him close his eyes as he inhales her scent, trying to savor the moment. And it breaks her heart and mends it – all at the same time. "You should come." She tells him, looking over her shoulder, with a small smile. He just nods and follows behind.

She opens the door, and on the other side a six year-old in a pink faux-fur coat is grinning wildly, next to a twenty-something blonde in a tight dress and a leather jacket, holding a backpack half her size. The girl smiles, and opens her mouth, but her eyes settle on the figure behind her and she freezes, blushing; her pale cheeks suddenly red. She can feel Fitz' body stiffen behind her and she understands, immediately. She offers the girl a half-hearted smile as she extends her hand, "I'm Olivia."

She takes it, her grip flimsy, and utters quietly, "I'm Daisy."

The six year-old next to her extends her hand, pushing her chest out as she straightens her back, "And I'm Amber. It's lovely to meet you Mrs. Grant." She says in an all-important, well-rehearsed tone. Fitz starts coughing loudly, the twenty-something looks like she's about to vomit and Lynn and Amber just stare at the adults, clearly amused and intrigued.

"Well, the pleasure is all mine Amber." Olivia manages to utter in a warm tone, as she bends down to the girl's eye-level, "But, you can just call me Olivia. I'm not Mrs. Grant." She says with an encouraging smile, and the girl nods in agreement. "Lynn, why don't you show Amber in?" And with that she's stepping to the side, letting the girl through. "Daisy, would you like to come in?"

"Oh, no. Thank you Mrs. G-Olivia… I… I should get going." And she turns around, almost running in her 5-inch heels.

"Daisy?" And the girl pauses, turning, panic in her eyes. "Do you think Amber might need her backpack?" And the girl just looks down at her hand, as a sigh of relief escapes her lips. She walks back to the door and extends the backpack to Fitz, who stands there, effectively frozen. Liv takes it, and steps inside, pulling him in.

"Is today a national – Bring your fuckbuddy home day?" She hisses as soon as the lock clicks.

"Liv…" She just walks past him, heading to the living room. "Liv, we need-"

"No actually, we don't need to anything." She says as she turns around, staring him down. "I need to go set up the movie and help Amber unpack. You need to sort out the food, and bring it by." He just looks at her for a moment, trying to decide whether to fight her on it, whether to push; but he knows better. He knows her enough to know that now's not the time, to know that at this point anything he says will only do more harm; so instead he just nods his head. "And Fitz, try not to bring anyone else around, while I set up."

"I didn't kn-" But she walks away before he can offer an explanation.

The awkward, charged silence is replaced by cheerful chatter. "So have you girls decided what you'd like to watch?"

"The Parent Trap!" Lyn exclaims excitedly, as they both look up at Liv.

"Ok, then. The Parent Trap it is." And she walks over to the TV, rummaging through the stack of DVDs – mostly Lynn's, and a collection of Charlie Chaplin movies that belongs to Fitz. She's barely used her TV before they moved in; or her living room really; but now – it's full of books and DVDs, photos, clothes and toys. It feels like home. She presses play, and watches them settle on the couch, under a large blanket, as the white castle and the shooting star appear on the screen. "What shall I tell Fitz you guys want to eat?"

"Cookies?" Lynn looks at her hopefully, and she just nods her head, before heading to the kitchen.

"They want cookies." She says, as she props herself on her toes, trying to reach the shelf, feeling the cool glass escape her fingertips. He walks over to her and grabs her waist, lifting her up. She freezes momentarily, her feet dangling above the ground, her arm frozen in the air; all blood seemingly drained from her brain. The warmth of his hands as they grip her waist; the feel of his thumbs at the small of her back. _She needed something. She needed something and that's why she came in. She needed something. Cookies. And it's a light bulb going on in her mind, she remembers – she was trying to reach the jar_. And her hand feels around the shelf blindly, until her fingers are wrapped around the glass, pulling it out. And he's putting her down, sliding her down his body. The feel of his abs, and she feels the belt buckle, and her breath hitches, and then she's sliding down his crotch; and his grip tightens as her feet touch the floor. "Damn it! No cookies!" She says, exasperated as she notices that the jar she's holding is completely empty.

"Oh, god yeah, we finished it this morning." He says, somewhat absentmindedly. And she just shoots him a look as she turns around and tries to get away from him, desperate for air that isn't infused with his scent.

"Couldn't you have told me that, before I, you-" She just trails off, still waving her hands in front of her face, as if they can say something she can't. "What do we do now?" And she notices him look up at the – we – but decides to ignore it; it was a slip-up on her part, nothing more.

"Make some?" He says with that annoying smile of his, the one that's both handsome and charming.

"I can't bake." She says in a voice she barely recognizes; it's high-pitched and whiney. She's trying to make him feel guilty, and they both know that this – what she's doing, it has nothing to do with cookies and baking.

"I can." He retorts, his wide smile softening.

"Of course you can." She utters under her breath as she tosses the apron to him. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, as he unpacks the crumpled ball of fabric, ruffles starting to come to life as he unfolds it. They both know there's another one in one of the drawers, but he doesn't say anything, he doesn't protest; he just grins mischievously as he ties it behind his back, looking at her tenderly. She grabs a plate of pop tarts and heads out of the kitchen, rushes out, really, before she can smile; before he can see her smile.

She drops the plate in front of the girls, then heads to her room. She takes a long shower, the warm water finally relaxing the knots in her shoulders; the steam opening her pores. For the first time that day she feels like she can breathe; like her mind isn't about to implode from anger, from hurt, from attraction; from wanting him and hating him at the same time. It's all too much. With him, everything is heightened; each feeling too strong to be controlled; instincts too powerful to battle, the want, the pull – overwhelming. And it scares her, how lost she gets in him; but it's also exhilarating – learning about herself though him; seeing herself though his eyes; discovering this whole other version of Olivia. She wraps herself in a towel and heads to her room. She puts on a pair of black leggings and a cream, off-shoulder, cashmere sweater. She pauses for a moment, staring at herself in the mirror. She notices the faint bruise just above her collarbone. She traces it with her finger, a faint smile playing on her lips. She should hate it. The mark. It's so juvenile. She should hate him for leaving it, marking her skin. She should. But the thing is – she doesn't. Instead; she's smiling at the reflection in the mirror, something she hasn't done in years, or maybe ever; she's smiling and the thought of seeing him again, in that apron, or playing with two six year-old girls, the thought of him – it makes her happy; despite everything.

She steps outside and Fitz is huddled together with the two of them, on the couch, whispering something. "What you doing?" She asks, smiling, eyes darting between two girls who grin mischievously, and him – his poker face, unreadable.

"Nothing." Lynn retorts, tilting her head, and sneaking her arm behind her back, to cross her fingers.

"They want me to set up a 'fort' in Lynn's room. For after the movie." He explains, as he gets up from the couch.

"Oh," she says with a small smile, standing awkwardly at the door, unsure of whether she should go sit with them on the couch, or join him in making the fort, or go sit in the kitchen and eat her feelings. This is all new – do six year-old girls like to be bothered during a sleep-over? Is she meant to leave them alone? Or should she be watching them? She doesn't know what the right thing to do is, and the constant wondering, the insecurity – it's exhausting.

"You should go help Fitz." Lynn says with a wide grin, and Liv just stares at her for a moment, taken aback. "I mean it's a fort. He'll need all the help he can get. And you know, he's pretty sad, he didn't have fun at his sleepover last night." And she turns around, to catch a glimpse of him, before he disappears into the girl's room, and she can't help but chuckle at his horrified expression; his face a shade of deep red.

"So how are you doing this?" She asks, as she closes the door behind her. He's already on the floor, surrounded by colorful sheets, in various shades of pink.

He looks up, and smiles, "I was thinking of tying some string, and then hanging these over it."

"Are you sure it won't collapse?" She asks, her voice gentler than she intended.

"No." He replies, shadows passing through his eyes, "But even if it does, it's not heavy. I mean it won't hurt them or anything."

"Maybe if we secure it here, and here," she says pointing, "it would be more stable, and a little bit bigger." He just nods in reply, and gets up. He puts the string in her hand, and his fingers linger, then he moves away with hank, rolling it in his hands, his eyes on her, the whole time. They work in silence, passing the scissors, exchanging shy glances; their hands touching, their minds racing. She gets the fairy lights from the window and attaches them to the string, lighting up the inside of the fort. He puts their sleeping bags on the floor, and a fluffy pink cover on top of them. They sit, kneeling, at the entrance for a moment, admiring their creation. "We did good." She says, tilting her head towards his shoulder.

He whispers, "yeah," into her hair, then brushes his fingertips against her knuckles lightly. She doesn't move her hand away, and he doesn't dare reach for it; so they just stay like that, the backs of their hands barely touching; moving up and down as they breathe; hot skin against hot skin making them both shiver.

They hear the tap of small feet on the wooden floor, and look at each other, smiling, their hands moving apart, as they turn towards the door.

"Is it don-" And she stops mid sentence, taking in the scene. The fort is taller than she is, the soft pink sheets hanging from the invisible strings; the faint lights peeking through the fabric as they flash rhythmically. "it's… amazing." She says, her eyes wide as saucers; Amber covering her mouth with her small hands.

"This is so awesome." The blonde girl exclaims. They run towards the fort and walk inside, letting out loud impressed wows.

"Come join us." Lynn calls out, and they just look at each other.

"Lynn, don't you guys want to hang out, just the two of you?" Olivia asks, hoping for an out – the proximity to him is intoxicating; it's melting all of her defenses; diffusing all of her anger.

"Nope." The girl exclaims simply, and Amber peeks her head outside, inviting them in. She crawls in before him, and she can feel his eyes on her ass the whole entire time. They lie on either side of the girls, all four lying on their black, looking up at the lights, and the patterns they're making on the colorful sheets. "It's so pretty!"

"I'm glad you like it." He says, and there's something so adorable about his tone; about how genuine he sounds, how happy.

"Did you have fairy lights last night?" Lynn asks, and both girls turn to look at him, while Liv just stares at the pink ceiling.

"No, we didn't." He says, somewhat tersely.

"That's probably why you didn't enjoy it." Amber says knowingly, and Lynn just nods her head in agreement.

"Yeah, that must be it, " Liv chimes in, turning on her elbow to look at him, her voice shaky, her eyes laced with hurt.

"Liv-"

"Is her real name Mellie?"

"I don't… I think it's a nickname, actually."

"You don't even know her name?" She asks, not even bothering to hide the judgment from her tone.

"My dad's girlfriend says that if a boy doesn't know your name, he's not worth your time. Unless he's got dime."

"Well, your dad's girlfriend sounds great Amber." He says, and the six year-old smiles, oblivious to sarcasm.

"She is. She told me I could get a nose job before high school, if I still want to."

"Can I get one too?" Lynn chimes, looking at Liv expectantly.

"No, honey. You don't need one." Then she catches Amber's eye, and quickly adds, "Neither do you, sweetie."

"But, my dad's girlfriend says that if you can improve something, you should-"

"So, is she going to get a brain transplant then?" Fitz cuts her off.

She looks at him wide-eyed, and Liv's stomach drops. She expects her to start crying, insisting that she wants to go home, but instead, "Can you do that?" She sounds impressed.

"No, you can't." Liv says softly, as she gets up, crawling out. She looks at him, but he's avoiding her eyes. "Fitz. Out. Now." Then she turns around and flashes another smile at the girls, "We'll just go get you something to drink."

"Can we have coffee?" Lynn asks excitedly.

"No, you can't have coffee! You're six."

And the girl's face falls, before she gathers herself and retorts, "But Fitz makes me coffee every morning."

And with that she's jumping up, giving him a death stare, and motioning him to follow her. As soon as they're out of the room, doors closed behind them, "Are you insane? Saying that? She'll say it to the girlfriend, and then what? There'll be a problem! And not for you, but for Lynn, in her new school, and her new class, with her best friend. And you're giving her coffee, what the hell is wrong with you!-"

"You done?" And she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. "She should not be hanging out with that girl anyway. I mean that girlfriend is a fucking psycho. And I told her not to hang out with her, and then you go behind my back, just to screw me over-"

"JUST TO SCREW YOU OVER? This isn't about you! This has nothing to do with you. She is her best friend. She is someone who makes her happy, and frankly following the shittty couple of months that Lynn's had, she gets whoever the hell makes her happy." She's in his face, her eyes ablaze; her hands moving franticly. "Stop trying to drag _us_, into this."

"Me, I'm trying to drag _us_ into this? You made sure there was no us. And you just mentioned Mellie, in that tent! And what the hell is your problem? I mean what, you can screw Stephen, but I can't screw her? Is that it? You get to fuck around, but I have to be celibate? Waiting around, making dinners and babysitting, being here when you need me?"

She just stares at him, her mouth opening and closing, her eyes filling with tears. Before she can say anything, there's a creak of the door, and they both turn around, just in time to see two small figures trying to disappear from view. Lynn freezes as she realizes they've seen them. "We just wanted to ask if we could get hot chocolate, if it's a no to coffee." She says softly, then closes the door, leaving them in stunned silence.

She just walks to the kitchen, and starts rummaging though the cabinets, looking for the hot chocolate mix. "What are you doing?" She doesn't answer him, she just slams two cups on the counter, and continues to inspect the drawers. "So what you're not talking to me now?" He asks again, the frustration in his voice matched by the ferocity of her movements. "Olivia, for the love od god, stop acting like a child!"

And that makes her stop, and turn around. She inhales deeply, and when she speaks, it makes his heart sink – her voice is cool, quiet and completely detached. "This, this right here is the reason I didn't want _us_. The screaming match, the shouting, the passive-aggressive; the messing with Lynn. This is it. I am not _screwing_ Stephen, not that it's any of your damn business. And you, you can fuck whoever you like. But not here. Not when Lynn's right next door. And that, that's not me punishing you, or me caring, because I'm not and I don't; it's common sense, so wrap your mind around it. We're stuck in this. We're stuck together, and I wish we weren't," it's a low-blow and she knows it, but she just keeps going, "but we have to make it work. Being friendly clearly isn't working, we're not mature enough for it; so we're simplifying this. We co-exist, we only talk about Lynn, and that's it." She looks at his stunned face, she can't stand it, so she looks at the counter, "and Fitz. Don't give her coffee."

She makes the hot chocolate, and he just stands in the doorway, looking at her. She wants him to go away, she needs him to go away, give her space. But he just stands there, looking hurt. As she passes him on her way out, two cups in her hands, he stops her, gently reaching for her elbow. She pulls it out of her reach, but doesn't move, looking up at him, defiantly. "How do I fix this?"

"You can't Fitz. There's nothing to fix. There was nothing to break in the first place." And she knows, she knows that's the last blow. She says it to hurt him, to see him flinch; she knows it's cruel, but in that moment she thinks he deserves it. And he just shakes his head slowly, a broken smile playing on his lips, as he steps aside for her to pass. And that, the simple gesture, breaks her heart. More than Mellie, more than the nanny; more than the yelling – because through it all she knew he still cared; she knew that whatever was between them – he felt it too. But now, he's letting her go, and it feels like her loss.

As she walks away, trying to compose herself, she hears a faint whisper, "It wasn't coffee Liv. I'd never give her coffee. It was dark hot chocolate. I just called it coffee, because it made her happy."

A lone tear rolls down her cheek, and she wipes it away with her sleeve, hoping that he won't notice; knowing that he did.

* * *

**Now, I'm pretty sure opinions will be split on this - as to who's right and who screwed up more, and I'm really interested to read what you think. One more chapter of downward spiral and then it's time to build them back up. **

**Also, to all of you who asked for the update - thank you! It means the world to me that you're invested in this story and the prompts to write genuinely work (I know it might not seem like it, but they do). And to everyone else - those who read, thanks for taking the time to dip your toes in this little sea of feels, and to those who review - thank you so much for letting me take a peek into your minds. **


	7. Lifeline

**Here's the next one. Pt.1 is Liv's PoV, then Fitz'. I hope it won't be confusing :)**

* * *

He pushes her against the door, turning the lock with his left hand; his right sliding to her ass. She moans, and he swallows it – it ignites his insides; the desire deep in his gut; something primal. Her hand is lost in his hair, the other one gripping his shoulder as he lifts her up. Their tongues long lost in frenzy; they don't know where one ends and the other begins; their limbs merely an extension of the other's body. She reaches for his belt, as he pushes her sweater off her shoulder; both desperate to feel the skin, all of it, to taste it, to revere it. Their need feverish.

**12 hours earlier**

She stretches in the bed, until her toes are peeking from under the covers, her fingers feeling the cool wood of the headboard. She rolls around on her stomach, and buries her head in the pillow, exhaling loudly. It's been a week. A week since she set the new boundaries, since she further built up the wall separating them; a week since the last time they exchanged more than pleasantries, or a sentence not concerning Lynn. A week since he was in her personal space, a week since she could inhale his scent, a week since she could rest her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. A week. And she hated every minute of it.

She misses him. She misses him and he's right there. He's a thin wall away, asleep in his bed, probably shirtless and… She misses him. And it's her fault. She was angry, she was angry, furious with him – the things he said, his childishness; she was furious for a couple of days. But then the anger settled, it dissipated and all she was left with was regret. And then regret, it turned into wistfulness. There's a soft knock on the door, and she lifts her head, as she calls out, "Come in."

Lynn opens the door, grinning, holding her teddy bear in her hand. "Morning." She says, shuffling in place, looking expectantly at Liv.

"Get in here." And she lifts the covers and taps the mattress. The girl runs towards her and throws the teddy bear on the bed, before jumping up herself, tackling Liv in the process. She starts tickling her, and her small body shakes as she erupts in laughter, her legs kicking the air, her small hands trying to reach Liv, to retaliate. The laughter bounces of the walls and fills the plain room; it warms it up and makes it come to life; it warms _her_ up and makes _her_ come to life. She eases up, and the girl calms down, grabbing the teddy bear and pulling him close to her chest. She snuggles into Liv's side, resting her head just above her breast.

"So what are you telling me about today?" She looks up, smiling.

"Today…" She says, and her lips stretch into a small smile, as she closes her eyes, "Today, I will tell you about the day you were born." And the six year-old claps her hands excitedly. "There was a snow storm the previous evening, and a crazy blizzard in Boston, and your house was completely snowed in. And your dad was stuck in LA, after this meeting he had, and there were no flights back. Everything, and I mean everything was at a stand-still. So your mom and your uncle Fitz decide to stay in, and watch a movie. And they made popcorn and hot chocolate. And your mom, she loved: loved, loved, loved hot chocolate. Especially when she was pregnant. She could have it anywhere, any time. So, Fitz made her some hot chocolate, and they're having the popcorn, watching the movie and suddenly, your mom pees her pants."

And the girl giggles. "No, she didn't."

"You're right. No, she didn't. You know what happened?" And Lynn just shakes her head, "Well, her water broke." The girl gives her a confused look. "When you have a baby in your tummy, it's swimming in liquid, and then when it's time to have it, the little sac that holds the liquid and the baby breaks and that's why it looks like you peed your pants. So, there's your mom, sitting in a little puddle of water, with this huge stomach, and she's about to have you, but everything's snowed in, and the storm is getting worse. And Fitz calls the ambulance. But your mom keeps crying in pain, and the ambulance isn't there. And then he realizes your mom will have to have you then and there, because they don't have time to wait. But he doesn't know what he's doing and he's freaking out, and then your mom figures out to call – can you guess who?"

And the little girl looks up at her, grinning, "You?"

"Yep, she calls me. And she tells me she's in labor and she needs me to walk Fitz through delivery. And I was still in med school. So I freak out, because I've only seen this done, and read about it, but I never did it – let alone taught someone to do it. So I get my book, and I open it and I start telling Fitz what he should be doing. And your mom is panicking, and I'm freaking out and then Fitz snaps and tells us both to shut up. And he calms your mom down, and he gives me a little pep-talk. And then we started. And I told him what to do and he did it, and by the time the ambulance came you were wrapped up in a little towel, sleeping on your mom's chest."

"No way." She says, her eyes wide as saucers.

"Yes." And she smiles, running her fingers through the girl's ginger hair. "Fitz saved you and your mommy, so he's a little bit of a hero."

"So are you." She says softly, as she lays a kiss on her cheek. "I love you Liv."

And her heart breaks a little bit – this is not how this should be; she should not be the one telling her this; she should not be the one cuddling her on a Sunday morning. But it also swells a little bit, flutters – because at least she's doing it right; at least she's not failing her; failing them. So she swallows the lump in her throat, and pushes out, in a strong, yet warm voice, "I love you too, munchkin." She kisses the top of her head, wrapping her arms around the little body tightly.

"Liv, I can't breathe." She cries into her chest, making her chuckle. She pulls back and looks into the blue eyes; they're the same shade as his – the deep blue, the light grey.

"Time for breakfast?" Lynn just nods and jumps out of bed. She storms out of the room and she can hear her scream as he jumps out from his usual hiding place behind the counter; and then it's the infectious laughter echoing through the apartment. She pulls her cashmere sweater over her head and joins them.

"Morning." She tires to sound friendly, but it comes out high-pitched, her voice sounds foreign. He gives her a strange look, and a returns a soft, "Good morning," in that baritone that makes her knees go weak.

"Coffee?" And she just nods yes, as she slips into a chair. "So what story did Liv tell you this morning?" He asks, looking Lynn, as he hands Liv the cup of coffee. His hand brushes against hers, but it doesn't linger. Her finger tingles and she smiles wistfully as she tastes the dark liquid – the ratio of milk and coffee struck perfectly.

"She told me about how you were there when mom had me. And you pulled me out-"

"Delivered." Liv interrupts with a small smile, "It's called delivered."

And the girl nods, "Yeah, about how you delivered me in a blizzard and how you're a hero." And he looks at her, a mix of sorrow and tenderness in his eyes. She offers him a smile, but he looks away, re-focusing his attention on Lynn.

"Your mom was a true hero." And she seems pleased with what he's saying, as she gets up from her seat and walks over to him, snuggling into his lap.

"What was I like?"

He looks over at Liv, but glances away quickly when she catches his eye. "You were magical. You were so tiny, and I was afraid I'd break you. And you were crying, so loudly. But that was a good thing. And then I handed you to your mom and she put you on her chest, and you just quieted down and took a nap."

And she chuckles at that. "I was a silly baby."

"Yeah." He manages to utter, but she can hear his voice break. "What do you say we head to the playground?"

"Can Liv come?" She asks excitedly, her eyes darting between the two of them.

But before she can say yes, he's saying, "No." He's running his hand down her back soothingly, speaking in low voice, "Liv needs to rest a bit today C. She's been working like crazy. So we can go to the playground, just the two of us."

"You don't want to hang out?" She asks, her lip quivering – she must have seen it from Liv.

"How about – I come a little bit later?" She says with a weak smile. She feels sucker-punched. She doesn't know if he's avoiding her, if he just doesn't want to be around her; or if he's just being nice. She can't read him and it's driving her insane. The girl is unimpressed, but she still nods her head in agreement.

"Go get ready?" He asks her, tapping her knee gently. She takes another bite of her toast and then jumps off his lap. He finishes her breakfast and picks up her plate, throwing it in the dishwasher. "I should go get ready too." He says and she's not sure if it's aimed at her, or if it's just a comment; she doesn't know if she should acknowledge it and say something.

She mumbles "OK," under her breath, and he stops in his tracks and turns around.

"What did you say?"

"Just, OK." She says, blushing, trying to cover her face by the coffee mug.

"Oh." And he just stands there, hands in his pockets, staring at her. It's quiet, and she hears the sound of her own throat as she swallows, and his breathing seems rushed, but then so is hers. He shifts his weight, seemingly unsure of what to do, and she just keeps on tilting the by-now empty coffee cup. "I'll just…" And he trails off, pointing his thumb in the direction of his room. He turns around slowly, swinging his arm unnecessarily and heads out of the kitchen. The nervous energy remains. She closes her eyes and runs her hands down her face, sighing loudly.

"Can I wear these?" She's holding up a pair of red, ladybug wellies, to go with her raincoat, grinning. "Fitz got them for me." And Liv can't help but smile, as the little girl holds on to her shoulder while helps her put them on.

They leave, and she stays alone, in _her_ home, except it no longer feels like that, it feels _theirs_. She tidies the place, she flips the TV channels, she tries to read, but the book is boring. She's restless, pacing. She wants to be with them, in the park; watching her run, watching him push her on the swing. She wants to be with them, her family. She used to be happy; she used to be happy on her own, content. But now, now she can't fathom her life without them. She checks her watch for the fifth time in an hour, finally deciding she can head down. She reaches for the door, but can't find the keys. The phone rings. She lets it. It's probably someone trying to sell something. Anything else – they can leave a message. She rummages through her bag, trying to locate the metal clink of keys with her fingers. But then she stops, freezes, as the familiar voice comes through the machine.

"Fitzgerald. This is a done deal. Your old apartment is ready, your cars have been taken out of the garage, and Peter will pick you up. We have a meeting at 9. Your flight is at 6:30. Do not miss it."

* * *

As soon as he sees her walking down the street he knows that something is wrong. She averts her gaze as soon as she sees him, focusing instead on her feet. But he sees it, he sees it instantly – the anger, the spark of fury in her eyes. And something else, something that breaks his heart, there's hurt, the hurt he's seen a week ago, before she disappeared behind her invisible walls.

"We need to talk." She says to him, before bending down to give a hug to a very excited Lynn. "Hey, munchkin."

"C, why don't you go play on the jungle gym for a little bit." He says with a tone of finality, and she just nods and throws him the ball they've been playing with.

As soon as the girl's out of earshot, she hisses at him, under her breath, "Your father called. Your apartment is ready and your flight is tomorrow at 6:30." He just stares at her, blankly, as a sinking sensation overwhelms his body, crystalizing one simple thought – he should have told her.

"Liv, let me explain."

"Is he out of his mind and this is all a lie?" He can tell she's slowly losing it, she's trying desperately to stop herself from yelling, waving her hands furiously in front of her face, to distract herself. "Fitz, are you going to Boston?"

"No. Not tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow? What the hell does that mean? Since when have you been contemplating moving back there?"

"We're been talking for the past few days, and he's insisted that I join the company. Replace Teddy." He hates the sound of it, the phony simplicity. She opens and closes her mouth, but no sound comes out. "Liv-" She just puts her hand up, and shakes her head.

"I knew it. I knew this would happen. I knew you'd make her fall in love with you; she'd get attached; she'd get used to having you around and then you'd just decide to leave. I knew you couldn't handle this! Fuck!"

"You knew?" And he knows, logically he knows he should explain, but her utter lack of faith is making all his reason dissipate. "You didn't just know Liv, you were waiting. Since the moment this started, you were just waiting for me to fail."

"Can we go get pizza?" A small voice breaks him out, as she pulls his hand.

"In a bit, C." He says softly. "Just give us a minute." And the girl walks away, unimpressed.

"I was… I was waiting for you to fail?" She says indignantly. "I was nothing, but supportive!"

He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a growl, "Supportive? You've questioned everything I've don-"

"Can we go get pizza, _now_?" She asks, whining, pulling on Liv's sleeve.

"A minute, Lynn." She says in a terse voice, before turning her attention back to him.

"You don't trust me." He says, suddenly exhausted.

"I-" But her voice is drowned out by a scream; by screeching of tires on the wet concrete.

His eyes search the deserted playground. His anger is gone in an instant; replaced by panic and fear – he can't see her. He looks to the street, and it's like a movie – happening in slow motion. He sees a pair of red willies, the ones he got her last week, peeking out from under the car. It's all a blur. The small hand, that grips his elbow and pulls him frantically. The running. He's on his knees, reaching for the still hand, the tender fingers – lifeless. He doesn't notice anything aside from the stillness. If her limbs weren't at unnatural angles, if there wasn't a silver track of tears on her cheek; he'd think she was asleep. So still. And he sees Liv kneeling, he sees her listening, holding her breath as she tries to hear the little girl's. Her shaky hand on the girl's neck, trying to find a sign of life.

"She's alive." And it's not a whisper she lets out, it's a mere breath; but he hears it. He doesn't hear the sirens though, or the medics yelling; he just hears the soft pleas leaving her lips – "Please be OK." And then she's yelling at the medics and firing instructions; she's giving them numbers and stats; and all he hears is weak and thready; broken ribs. He doesn't understand the full extent of it, but he knows, he knows – she's not asleep. He knows she might not wake up from this. And the ambulance is slowing down, coming to a halt; she's being wheeled out and they're jumping out. They're running, trying to keep up and Liv, she's yelling at Cy. Cy – he hadn't seen him, when did he-. It doesn't matter, because they're moving again, and then the double doors open, and a nurse is pushing him back, saying something, "You can't go past this line, Sir. Sir, please step back." He doesn't hear it; the words she's saying, the language it sounds foreign; his brain can't process it. But then it's two petite hands on his chest, and a voice he hears, words suddenly have meaning, "Fitz, we can't go in there." And he understands; she's saying – it's time to let go, time to pray; to the deities of the universe; to whoever might be out there. He just stands there for a moment, lost in time and space, the only thing grounding him a shaky hand. "We should go to the waiting room. They'll update us." And she's walking away from him, and he follows her, as if entranced. Her mind is his mind.

He collapses into the chair next to hers and exhales loudly. He buries his face in his hands, the soles of his palms muffling his cries, his broad shoulders shaking violently. And he feels her hand on his knee, massaging his leg, her other hand on his cheek; her warm breath ticking his ear, "She'll be OK." And she's pulling his head to her chest; cradling him, running her fingers through his hair soothingly. He's falling apart and she's his lifeline.

And he doesn't know how long it's been; how many minutes passed, or hours – to him, it seems like days, years; time at a standstill.

"Liv." And her hands freeze, he can feel her body tense; he hears her heart beating louder, faster, in her chest. He looks up at the handsome man. "She won't need brain surgery, but we need to open her up and see the extent of internal injuries."

"Is she…?" She asks in a voice that breaks his heart.

"We sedated her. She's asleep. Don't worry. We've got her Liv." And she just nods and smiles weakly.

"Let me know…"

"Of course." He says softly, as he bends down to kiss her temple. He walks away and she reaches for Fitz' head and pulls him back to her chest. He can feel her relax as her fingers start drawing patterns on his scalp. And their breathing falls in sync.

/

"I trust you." She says softly, breaking the settled silence. He lifts his head, and turns to look at her.

"What?"

"You said, you said I don't trust you. I do. I trust you. I just… I'm so afraid, and confused… It's me I don't trust, not you."

"Liv-"

"No, just, please, let me finish." And he just nods his head, as he reaches for her hand. "I don't want you to go. I don't want you to move to Boston. I just… please stay. We need… I need you." And her voice cracks, a lone tear escaping her eye; a kink in the armor she so meticulously built up.

"I'm not going anywhere. I never agreed to move there. I was going, I was going to a meeting with my father to tell him to find someone else to run the company. It's not me. It's never been me. Not when Teddy was alive and… not now. Him dying, doesn't change that. It changed everything; but not that. I… I found a job here. Directing. Directing this independent movie."

"Why didn't you tell me?" She asks, cracking a weak smile.

"You told me not to tell you anything that wasn't Lynn-related. I was trying to give you space. I fucked up. Big time. So I was trying to give you what you wanted; whatever you wanted, even if I hated it."

"I hated it too." She whispers, burying her head in the crook of his neck. "You know… that night, when we almost… There was this couple in the ER and their kid was hit by a car, and they were screaming at each other, and… completely ignoring the kid. And I just, I freaked out, that with us; that… and now…"

"Liv-" His voice is a tender plea.

"I was wrong." And he looks down at her, taken aback. "Letting you in, that's the right thing. Because the alternative, we just… keep fighting. And it's not good for us, and it's not good for her. We were so lost in our own drama today that we completely ignored her, we just… we literally lost sight of her, and if she… I'll never forgive myself."

"She'll be OK." And the conviction with which he says it surprises them both, makes them believe, even if just for a second. "And Liv?" She just looks up at him. "Those parents, they were just human. We're just human. You have to stop fearing feeling, so much. Sometimes, feelings are a strength, not a weakness. They, they could be our strength." She just looks at him for a moment, processing, then drops her head back on his shoulder, letting her arms rest in his lap.

/

"She's out of surgery." And they're both springing to their feet, listening intently. "We managed to stop the bleeding. Three of her ribs were fractured. There was a bleed on her spleen. Her left arm is in a cast. But surprisingly, and this, this is a miracle, other than that she was OK. No permanent damage, no substantial loss of blood."

"She… she'll be fine?" She asks in a shaky voice, bringing her hands to cover her mouth.

"She'll be fine. You can go to the ICU, wait for her to wake up." And she's throwing herself at him, hugging him tightly, as Fitz shakes his hand, uttering countless thanks.

When they wheel her in she looks so small, so fragile, so broken. Dark bruises covering every inch of her skin; her arm swallowed up by the pink cast; thick bandages on her forehead. So, utterly, broken. Liv lets out a sharp breath, and tightens her grip on his hand, and he just kisses her temple. He sits on the chair next to her head, and she sits at the foot of the bed, resting her hand on the little girl's leg. They're quiet. For hours they're just quiet, the steady beeping of the machines drowning out the noise of their thoughts. She's breathing. Steadily. She's breathing. Her heart is beating.

She stirs a little bit, scrunching up her little nose; her forehead furrowing as she shuts her eyelids tighter – the hospital lights blinding. He gets up and shields her eyes with his large hand, and she opens them slowly, looking up at him, confused, panicking.

"Ouch." And he can't help but smile. He wants to touch her, kiss her cheek, scoop her up and never let her out his sight, but he just settles on flattening her hair, running his finger through it – the only part of her body he thinks he can touch without causing any additional pain. "What happened?"

"You were in a car accident." Liv says, slowly, as she walks up to the other side of the bed.

"My… everything hurts." She says in a weak voice, a tear rolling down her cheek.

"Shhhh, baby." He whispers softly. "How about I tell you a story?" And she nods her head in response. "So the Chrysler building, can you remember why it's the queen?" And he tells her the story of how it was built, and she drifts off back to sleep. She wakes up again, groggy, and they explain it again. And this time, he tells the story of Grand Central. And again; Radio City, this time. Finally, they up her meds, so she could sleep – she needs to rest.

"You should get some sleep too." Cy says in his usual no-nonsense tone. "You'll need it for tomorrow."

"We're OK here." She says absentmindedly, as she runs small circles on the back of Lynn's hand.

He looks at Fitz, pulling him to the side. "She's ticking. She's been fine the whole day. She's held your hand and her hand, and she's ticking. You need to defuse it. Because if you don't, she'll lose it. Maybe not tomorrow, and maybe not in a week, but she will lose it, and then; well then it will be like watching a train wreck." He just nods his head.

"Liv, we should go get some sleep. They'll call us if anything changes." And he kneels next to her, resting his hand on her knee.

"I want to stay here."

"How about… we go to an on-call room? You have those here, right? We can sleep there, and they'll get us if anything changes?" She just stares at the small body. "Please, for me?" And finally, she looks at him. She stares at him for a moment, as if trying to find an answer on his face, as if hoping that the right thing will be written there. Finally she gets up, and leads him out of the room, pausing at the door, to take one last look.

She's sleeping now. She will wake up.

/

He closes the door behind her with a shaky hand. He watches her walk away. The slouched shoulders, her head lowered, her steps slow, her feet barely leaving the surface of the floor. She looks as broken as he feels; as exhausted, as guilty.

"Liv." She pauses, but she doesn't turn around. She just lifts her head slowly, staring out the window at the dark sky. She clenches his hand in a fist, then opens it; then repeats. It's absentminded, a way to stay grounded. "Liv." He calls out again. His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. She just bends her head down again, and shakes it, looking at the floor. He takes a step towards her, and it feels like the room is spinning; he misses the comfort of the cool wooden door behind his back. He takes another step, reaching out his arm, slowly, giving her time to pull away. She doesn't. She just stays in place. He brushes his hand against hers, and she looks at him out of a corner of her eye. He walks past her side and turns, so that he's facing her. "Liv." And she looks up, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

"This is all my fault."

"No, it isn't."

And with that she's propping herself on her toes, and laying a soft kiss on his lips. She just stays like that for a moment, feeling his creases against hers, feeling every crevice and every curve; feeling the electricity pass along the tips of their touching noses, rush though their cheeks. But then, her tongue is seeking entrance, and he's opening his mouth. And the kiss is no longer slow, and no longer chaste – it's rushed, frantic; giving and taking; getting lost in the moment; getting away from reality. It's tongues dueling, as their hands sneak past the clothes, seeking out burning flesh.

And they're stumbling back.

He pushes her against the door, turning the lock with his left hand; his right sliding to her ass. She moans, and he swallows it – it ignites his insides; the desire deep in his gut; something primal. Her hand is lost in his hair, the other one gripping his shoulder as he lifts her up. Their tongues long lost in frenzy; they don't know where one ends and the other begins; their limbs merely an extension of the other's body. She reaches for his belt, as he pushes her sweater off her shoulder; both desperate to feel the skin, all of it, to taste it, to revere it. Their need feverish.

"Wait." And he's reaching for her hand, the one on his belt, and pushing it away slowly. She looks up, confused, hurt, her eyes questioning, but more than that, pleading. "We can't do this. Not now. It… now's not the right time." And she lets out an exasperated sigh, as she collapses her head on his shoulder, her legs still wrapped around his waist. "This. Us. It, it needs to be right. And right now, is not the right time." And he puts her down, loosening his arms. He kicks off his shoes and lies down on the lower bunk. And she just watches him, observing, her back still firmly against the door. "C'mere." And she just looks at him, as he pats the mattress. "C'mere… Livvy." And her expression changes, a small smile, followed by a flash of pain. She kicks off her shoes, too, and sits down on the bed. He reaches for her hand and she lies down, laying her head on his chest. He wraps his arms around her and kisses her forehead. And suddenly, she's sobbing, her whole body shaking, the tears drenching his sweater. She's uttering, "She's OK," between broken breaths. And he just holds her, running his hands up and down her back, kissing her hair, her forehead, every inch of the skin he can reach.

She's breaking down. She's letting him in. He's holding her up. He's her lifeline.

* * *

**OK, so that was a lot, huh? He called her Livvy, for the first time… I know that's not the most exciting thing that happened… but, he called her Livvy. Anyway, they're finally ready to move beyond being a couple of three year-olds and to being a couple of teenagers. So, yay for that.**

**And let me just say – thank you so much for you amazing, amazing support and interest. It's so inspiring and you guys make this story into what it is. **

**Let me know what you thought, I'm really curious. **


	8. Slow (Pt I)

Ch8 – Taking it Slow, Pt.1

He can hear their laughter, the free kind, the loud kind, the kind that fills hearts and not just rooms, all the way down the hall. He's hurrying, unconsciously, they pull him in – like gravity. He pauses at the door for a moment, and just looks at them. Lynn is still bruised, her small body various shades of purple and blue, covered in little scrapes and bigger cuts; her arm still in a cast. But she no longer seems broken, nothing about this, about them feels broken. It feels like healing; like fresh air that suddenly reaches the lungs, makes them come alive, and leaves that feeling of invincibility cursing through the awakened body. He feels like that, looking at them, cuddled on the hospital bed, Liv telling her another story, from a different life. And for the first time he doesn't feel guilty for loving what he sees, for the fact that it makes him happy; for the first time he smiles without a hint of wistfulness, he smiles at the possibility of a life he can have – and with each moment that he lets himself love them fully, the pang of guilt vanes. She looks up and sees him, she realizes he's been watching them and she bows her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Hi," he says in that baritone that he knows she loves; the one that always makes her look up, makes her blush, makes her eyes gleam with inklings of desire, the soft auburn momentarily dark.

"Hi," she says as she looks up yet again; her smile widens.

"Fitz!" And it's an excited shriek, more than anything else; her head snapping up to look at him, her arms extending to invite him in. But she makes no attempt to move from Liv's embrace; she's snuggled in too perfectly, her little head has found just the right angle resting above Liv's breast; Liv's arms have found a way to make her feel both loved and safe. He smiles as he drops the bag with Liv's stuff on the chair, and she nods appreciatively in acknowledgment. He pulls his jacket off slowly, looking at Liv the whole, entire time; tilting his head slightly to the side as he frees himself from the sleeves. She bites her lip, then quickly kisses Lynn's temple, as she realizes the girl's eyes are darting between them. He kicks his shoes off and climbs on the small bed, his feet touching Liv's, his nose brushing against hers as he kisses the top of Lynn's head. They both look away, not yet ready for the things they would see, if they let their eyes meet.

"So how you feeling this morning C?" He asks, trying to shift his focus to anything other than her lips.

"OK." The girl says happily, shifting slightly in her place, to get a better look at him. "You're acting funny." And Liv chuckles quietly, as he blushes, furrowing his brows as he tries to play coy. He can tell that the girl isn't buying what he's selling, her face unimpressed; she's not blinking, her blue eyes piercing through him. "Do you have an STD?" And he starts coughing, but she's undeterred, keeps on talking. "Because, Amber's dad's girlfriend said that boys act funny when they have an STD." He sees Liv's grin out of the corner of his eye; she's not even trying to hide how much she's enjoying this.

"No, C, I don't have an STD. Do you even know what an STD is?" And he knows he shouldn't have asked; he knows as the words escape his lips, and he sees her shaking her head, mouthing a no; but it's too late – he served the conversation to the six year-old on a silver platter.

"No! I don't!" she says excitedly. "What is it?" She turns her head expectantly from Liv, to Fitz, than back to Liv. Liv just chuckles and nods towards him.

"It's a disease. Well diseases." She frowns, and tilts her head, as if trying to determine whether what he's saying is true.

"What kinds of diseases?" She asks biting her lip nervously.

"Treatable ones." He stops himself before he can say _mostly_; he's learning on his feet. There are just some things that need to be sugar-coated; and well some that just need to be straight-out lies. She looks at him, slightly confused. "It means there's a cure."

"Oh." She seems relieved, but then, "But if there's a cure, why do they make boys act funny?"

"They don't." He says, glancing at the door, trying to will them to open. He has never wanted a nurse to come in; he has never longer more to see Stephen.

"But Amber's dad's gi-"

"Amber's dad's girlfriend talks too much. STDs don't make boys act funny. And some girls act funny when they get STDs as well and-"

"Girls can get STDs?" She asks, horrified, her eyes twice their regular size. "Can I get one?"

"No, C, you really, really can't get one."

"Oh." She says with a sigh of relief, but then, "How _do_ people get them?" So close. He was so close to getting away with it. So, so close. But now, now he's trying to decide what he should discuss first with this particular 6 year-old, sex, or contraception.

"You know what," He says grinning, and looking at Liv, "since Liv is a doctor, and a very good one at that, I'm sure she can explain it a lot better than I can." And her grin fades instantly, her smirk disappears as she shoots him a death glare, that almost makes him shiver. But before she can speak, the door opens.

"Hello, Miss Carolyn Grant, age six, how are you doing today?" The man asks in a warm tone. She giggles and blushes; she likes him, and Fitz gets it – he's tall, dark-haired, charming; he plays with her and pays attention to her, and he's a fan of unicorns – basically every girl's dream.

"You're funny!" She exclaims, clapping her hands. "We were just talking about STDs." She says, pride in her voice. She's trying to show off, to impress him with her medical knowledge.

Steven just looks between the two of them, as they hop off the bed, grinning. Fitz pats him on the back as he passes him, and Liv just mouths, _sorry_. "I need to go shower." She says as she grabs the bag from the chair.

"And I… I need to go, get _you_ a cup of coffee." Fitz smiles at Steven widely, before closing the door behind him. "I feel bad about leaving him in there." He says, as they walk away.

"He'll be fine." She says looking at him; a smile on her lips matching his. They stop, without realizing. They're standing in a deserted hallway, lost in a gaze. His eyes are lost in hers; in the specs of gold; in the warmth, in the tenderness that radiates through them. And he's taking in the way her skins seems to emit a glow, the way it looks so inviting, so soft – every fiber of his being is yearning for him to touch it. And the small dimples when she smiles; the dimples that make him smile as well; there's something so innocent in them; something so genuine. Her lips. The last time they kissed they tasted like coffee and tears – hers, or his? They felt like a burden being lifted; like homecoming – like finding himself, his true self, in another human being. Her tongue slipping in, and his past is falling away; crumbling like a city made of dust; and his future is in the beat of her heart. He needs to feel that again; life coursing through him as he discovers a whole new universe in the creases of her lips, a new world as her tongue glides against his, constellations in her eyes as she breathlessly looks at him; her hands feverishly clutching his neck. He steps towards her, slowly, but she seems taken aback; and he cups her cheek in the palm of his hand. He runs his thumb across her lips, smiling. But then he feels her body stiffen; her expression change.

"Liv?" He asks, as he lowers his hand, but he stays in place. He's not giving her more space; if she wants it, _she_'ll have to take a step back. She looks at the floor, and shakes her head, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to get her thoughts to make sense. "Liv?" And his hand reaches for hers, but he stops himself, and just lets it hover next to hers, their knuckles almost touching, heat radiating off of their skin.

"You said now wasn't the right time." She says quietly, so quietly that he barely hears it; it's almost lost in the space between them.

"Livvie…"

She looks up at him, the familiar hurt in his eyes, the one that breaks his heart. "You said now wasn't the right time. You didn't want to, and that's fine. I mean it is fine." She's talking at warp speed, breathing clearly a bonus, not a necessity. "I mean I get it, I do. I pushed you away, and you thought Stephen and I, and it's fine. But you said no, and now, now you're looking at me like that, and you're towering over me like a freaking skyscraper; and there's no space; you're everywhere. And I like that, I like that you're around, but it's making it really difficult to not think about you the way I want to think about you, because you're funny, and charming, and hot, you're hot; I mean… and you're smiling… Why are you smiling?" She finishes, and then inhales, suddenly aware that she's ran out of breath right between towering and skyscraper. And she's blushing and blinking furiously.

"I just… you're adorable." And she exhales sharply, turning away, but he grabs her hand. "Liv."

"No, that's great. I am apparently having a meltdown. I mean… I don't even… I don't say these things. I don't… and I don't feel these things. I don't know how to, I just. And I tell you all of that, and all you've got is adorable? I get it, OK? You said it wasn't the right time, because you didn't want to hurt my feelings; and that's sweet. But it's fine. I get it. I should… I should go." And she tries to move away, to get her arm out of his grip, but he only tightens it and pulls her in; flush against his body.

"Now. Listen. To. Me." And she opens her mouth to speak, but he just puts her index finger on her lips. "I said it wasn't right, because we were both exhausted and emotional, and it wouldn't have been about us. It would have been rushed and frantic and that… we're more than a quick lay. And what the hell is wrong with you so that you can't see that I'm crazy about you, that you can't hear me when I say it?

"You have two speeds Olivia. Literally, it's like a switch. And either you're in, and I mean _all_ in; or you're all out. Either it's having sex in bathrooms and on-call rooms, or it's cold shoulder and nothing. Life isn't just two speeds! I. Do. Not. Want. To. Rush. This-"

"I don't rush things." She says indignantly.

"Oh, really? Tell me the last time, you didn't rush something?"

And she shoots him a frustrated look, as she bites her lip. "I… my molars were really late to grow."

"Mhmmmm." He whispers as he lowers his head, until his lips are hovering above hers. "You need to slow down. We need to do this right. Because we've already managed to fuck it up an inordinate number of times. Fucking up seems to be the only thing we can both do right. So, no, we're not rushing, we're taking our time. Which means dates, and slow kisses, and watching old movies and walking in rain. OK?" And her hand travels up his chest, until she's playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, and then she's propping herself on her toes and kissing him. And it's tender, and sweet; their noses touching, barely, as their lips move perfectly in sync. And his tongue plays with her top lip, and she smiles against his, then opens her mouth slowly. And he teases her, and she moans in his mouth, as she pulls his head even closer. They chuckle, the soft vibrations filling them up.

And she steps away, breathlessly; constellations in her eyes, "I can do slow. With you, I can do slow. We'll do slow." And she takes his hand, their fingers interlaced, as she leads him down the hallway, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Like a skyscraper?"

"Shut up."

* * *

**Now, this was part one. I'll try to update pt.2 tomorrow, because I'm away for the week after Monday, without internet. **

**Let me know what you thought - about Liv's little speech, and Ftiz calling her out on her two speeds. I LOVELOVELOVE reading your comments. Seriously, they make me so happy and excited to be writing, so thank you so much. Honestly, you're amazing. And thank you for reading :)**


	9. Slow (Pt II)

**You know what's really funny? How in the last chapter I said I'd update the next day... Fast Forward to three weeks later. OK - I guess it's not ****_HAHA_**** funny, more like ****_awkward silence_**** funny. But here it is - the next one: :)**

* * *

"Hi."

It's funny. How her heart skips a beat when he says it. _Every, damn, time he says it_. And she doesn't know. She doesn't know if it's the tone of his voice, if it's the velvety baritone; or if it's the way he says it, that crooked smile that makes her weak at the knees appearing on his lips; or maybe it's the way his eyes come alive. Maybe it's just the effect of seeing him – always like the first time, overwhelmed by his height, by his charm; by the electricity that surges through her body. Maybe it's just the joy, the excitement that he's there; that she's letting herself want him there, need him there. Maybe it's all those things, and more; maybe it's her thoughts the moment she sees him, temporarily distracted by fantasies – of him and her, and naked bodies and entangled limbs; of quiet screams. Because, she thinks, he, he could make her call out his name, as she fists the sheets, at the edge of her sanity. He could, with his tongue, and his hands and his-

"Liv?" And her head snaps up, her eyes lingering on his crotch for another moment. She blushes as she realizes she's clutching on to the armchair, and closes her parted lips; shifting in her seat, so that her legs are tucked away under her body.

"Hi," she says, quietly, staring at his red ear, avoiding his triumphant gaze. He crosses the small hospital room, in a few easy steps, until he's standing before her, towering over her, blocking everything else from view.

"So…" and he looks at the empty bed, quizzically, than back at her, licking his lips, "Where's Lynn?"

She reaches for his hand, and runs her thumb from his knuckles down his fingers gently, "She's in the bathroom. Brushing her tee-" But before she can finish the sentence, his hand is gripping hers, and then he's pulling her up, flush against his body. She's standing on the armchair, and his head is resting comfortably on her chest, as she bends down to kiss his temple. And she can feel his arms tighten around her, as if he's afraid she could disappear at any moment; and she understands – this them, it's too good, too perfect to last. So she threads her fingers through his thick curls and inhales – commits this to memory – the smell of early spring rain in his hair, his even breaths swallowed by her chest; his hands traveling up and down her back. She remembers the moment, a vignette.

"Is everything OK?" And a small voice breaks them out. And he's stepping back, no, jumping back, really; and she's stumbling into the chair, or from the chair – she doesn't know; all she knows is he's trying to catch her, and it's rushed and awkward; and it's her elbow in his eye, and a coarse, "Ouch!" And he lowers her to the floor, before stumbling a few steps back himself, his head bent, his hand covering his eye.

"Oh, god." He says, while trying to inhale. She grabs his wrist gently, and pushes his hand away, trying to inspect his eye.

"Look at me." He blinks furiously. "Fitz. Look. At. Me." She rubs her thumb in small circles on his wrist, and she can feel his pulse slowing down.

He opens his eyes. And she takes a step back, dropping his hand. "I am so sorry. I am so, so, so sorry." And now she's hyperventilating, shaking her head furiously.

"Liv." Nothing. She is pacing, apologizing frantically. "Liv!" He places his hands on her shoulders, "Livvy." And she stops in her tracks and looks up.

"You decided blind me with your elbow, instead of blinding me with love, huh?"

"Sorry. I-"

"Liv. I'm fine." He says, a wide smile stretching across his face. "I'll have a bruise for a few days... or years," she buries her head in her hands, "but I will be OK. I'm OK."

She peeks at his eye, through a crack between her fingers, but then buries her face in her hands again. "It's swollen." She says, her words muffled by the heel of her palm.

"I didn't quite catch that." He whispers in her ear, running his hands up and down her arms.

"It's swollen." She says, finally lifting her face.

"It will be OK." He leans his forehead on hers, then turns his head slowly, from side to side, so that the tip of his nose is playing with the tip of hers. They chuckle, lightly, the warmth of their shared breaths tickling their skin.

"You're acting funny." She startles them again, their eyes are suddenly wide, and Liv bites her lip as Fitz drops his hands quickly from her hips.

"Damn it. We can't keep doing this." He whispers into her ear, before turning around to face Lynn. "Come here." And she walks over to where he's standing, slowly, trying to maintain her balance in Liv's 5 inch heels. He scoops her up in his arms, mindful of her still tender scars and bruises.

"So, C, how would you feel about Liv and me, being… together?"

"What do you mean?" She asks, her confused eyes darting between them. "Are you going somewhere?" Her tone is suddenly high-pitched and fraught with panic.

"No, C, neither of us is leaving." And he runs his hand soothingly through her long hair and down the small back, as he lays a soft kiss on her temple.

"But you're already together… We're all together. We have dinner together, and you help me with my homework, and we go to cinema on Saturdays and skating on Sundays, and we bake, and..."

"No, not together like that." He cuts her off, his voice tender and warm.

"Together like what then?" She challenges, bending her back slightly, to get a better look at him.

"Together… romantically." He manages to push out after a long pause.

"Like boyfriend and girlfriend?" She asks, scrunching up her small face, and biting her lip.

He looks at Liv, and she smiles at him, winking. "Yeah… I guess, like boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Oh…" And she's quiet. Thinking. They can see the wheels in her head turning. "Does that mean you'll stop fighting?" And they both blush, and look at their feet, suddenly drowning in the familiar guilt.

"Well, no." He says, slowly. And both ladies look at him, Lynn clearly disappointed and Liv a mix of amusement and panic. "We'll still fight sometimes. Because when people love each other they fight. When you love someone, you want them to be the best version of themselves they can be, because you know that that's the only way for them to be really happy. And when you love someone, you don't always see eye-to-eye, but you have to work through it and try to agree – and sometimes to do that, you have to fight, for a little bit. But, we'll never fight like _that _day – I promise you that." And he can see her visibly relax, a small smile appearing on her lips, but it does nothing to alleviate his guilt.

"Will you be kissing?"

And before he can answer, Liv is speaking, "No! We will not be kissing, not in front of you anyway."

"Good, because that's gross!" She says, before burying her head in the crook of his neck. But then she looks up, and pokes his cheek with her small finger, pondering something for a moment. "Will you have sex?" She's too fascinated by the feel of his stubble under her fingertips to catch a look they've exchanged; to catch the smirk he directed at Liv, and the side-eye she gave him. Realizing neither of them is speaking, she lifts her head, and looks at him, "Because Amber's dad's girlfriend said yesterday when they came to visit that sex ruins relationships."

"She said that to you?" He asks as he lowers her onto the bed.

"No, she was on the phone to her personal shopper." And they can literally see her brain switching between two topics, sex forgotten, shopping clearly more appealing. "Did you know that your personal shopper is like a best friend, but even better, because they don't let you get fat."

"Let me guess, Amber's dad's girlfriend told you that?" He says as he pulls out a bag of gummy worms form his messenger bag.

"Yeah, she-"

"She can't have that." Liv exclaims, before taking the bag of colorful candy from his hand. "She's recovering from surgery. She needs nutrients, not gelatinized sugar.

"But…" And Lynn gives looks at her with teary eyes and a quivering lip, a trick she no question picked up from Liv. And Fitz joins her, in poking out his bottom lip, and blinking furiously.

"No! You can have this instead." And she hands her a banana that a girl takes from her hand with a roll of her eyes.

A firm knock, and then an elderly man with eyebrows thicker than his hair steps in. "Morning." He walks over to the bed and gives Lynn a kiss.

"Morning uncle Cy." And she wraps her arms around his neck, and lays a sloppy kiss on his almost-bald head. "Did you come to continue our game?" And she starts moving the pile of toys on her bed around, looking for a deck of cards.

"No, sweetie, I'll come back for that later." And he stands up, looking at Liv. "I actually need to talk to Liv for a minute." Liv gives him a confused look, but then heads to the door, signaling him to follow.

"What is it Cy? How is her white cell count? Did she catch an infection or something? How are her kidneys? We should re-do her CT, maybe we missed a brain bleed. Or may-"

"Liv." And he says it in that tone that instantly breaks her out, makes her focus. "Lynn is fine. I… there's a case in the ER, a twelve year-old on a skateboard vs. an ice cream truck."

"What's going on?" Fitz asks, closing the door behind him, looking between Cy and Liv.

"There's a case that I could really use Liv's help on, if you guys will be OK for a few hours without her." And he looks at her, but she's shaking her head no, pleading.

"Yeah, we'll be fine."

"I really don't think that's a good idea." She says, her voice laced with panic.

"You don't trust me?" He challenges, but she can tell that he knows it's not it.

"Of course I do… it's just… I don't even have my scrubs." And she knows, she knows it's a lame excuse, but it's the best she can come up with in that moment.

"Well, I guess it's a good thing I brought you some then." He says, with a wide smile on his face. But she doesn't smile back. She just looks between the two of them, and then nods her head.

"Fine." She says, her tone icy, before she heads inside. She pushes the door with too much force and it flies open; Lynn looks up from the iPad, suddenly interested in what's happening. She can feel Fitz behind her, but she refuses to turn around. She just grabs the bag with her stuff from his bag, kisses Lynn quickly and turns around to leave.

"Liv."

"Not now." She hisses.

She walks to the locker room, but her legs don't feel like her own – they feel like rubber, like ice that's melting with every passing second. She feels short, small, insignificant. Her heart is pumping like crazy, the beats echoing in her ears. Her hands shaky, and she's dropping things; the stethoscope around her neck suddenly feels like a noose. Her pager beeps. She stares at the numbers, as they flash on the small screen. _911_. It's a 12 year-olds life. They need her. He needs her. His parents need her. His friends, and the girl he likes that sits behind him in class; his younger brother who loves to skateboard too, and the elderly neighbor who he visits every Sunday. He has a life – a life full of people, of memories to be made, of feelings to be felt, dreams to be dreamt. She puts the pager back in her pocket and slams the locker door shut, before running out.

She pauses again, for the briefest of moments, in front of the glass ER doors. The chaos, the bustle, the frantic energy – it's the same as when they brought Lynn in. The shouting, the beeping, the cries and the rare laughs; the flashes of light, of red and of white; the shaky smiles and teary eyes. The same. The same as it always was, but now – now it feels personal.

"Liv, you coming?" Steven calls out, as the glass door closes once again before her face. And she takes a step, then another one, and she keeps going until she's inside. And then, suddenly, it's no longer personal, it's the familiar rush, the confidence, the adrenaline, the high. It's no longer anxiety and fear; it's the world at her feet – it's power, it's ability to save, to help. To fix.

And she does.

He codes, and she brings him back to life. She stops the bleeds, she repairs the damage; she puts the broken body back together. And it's natural, instinctual; it's her hands moving before her consciousness; her eyes seeing things, before they appear. It's hours that feel like a single breath, hours gone in a blink of a tireless eye.

"That… That was impressive." Stephen says as he peels his scrub cap off his head. She just smiles, weakly, as exhaustion slowly overtakes her body. "Can I get you a drink?"

"No thanks." She says as she heads to the waiting room. "I'll just update the parents, and then I think I'll go hang out with Fitz and Lynn."

"You really like him, don't you?"

And her smile widens, as she twists her knuckles, "I do."

"Well, if it's makes it any less scary – that man is head over heels in love with you." And he walks away, with a spring in his step, leaving her stunned in a deserted hallway.

* * *

"Hi." And he looks up from his iPad, the screen light illuminating his face in the otherwise dark room.

"Hi." And there's a tone in his voice, uncertainty, or maybe worry?

"What time is it?" She asks as she takes in Lynn's sleeping form.

"Ten." He follows her eyes to the bed. "She fell asleep around nine. She was exhausted."

"How were her tests today?" And she walks over to the armchair.

"Good. She's all good. They said we can take her home on Monday."

"Home, huh?"

"Yeah." He says with a smile as she sits in his lap. He wraps his arms around her, and she leans into him – her body fitting perfectly into his.

"And, we're boyfriend and girlfriend now?"

"That OK?" He asks, his tone light, but there's a slightest hint of concern in it.

"It's perfect." She says before kissing him. Her hand cups his cheek, then moves past his ear, into his hair. And his tongue traces her lips and she opens her mouth for him. He tastes like sugar and lemon, like… and she chuckles before breaking the kiss to look at him. "You gave her gummy worms?"

"I had some too." He says innocently. And before she can reply his lips are on that spot on her neck that makes her forget everything, that makes her want to rip his clothes off and pin him against a wall. She moans.

"Fitz… Lynn." She says, her brain already fuzzy.

"She's asleep." But he stops and rests his forehead on her shoulder.

"So you're no longer mad at me?" He murmurs it against her skin, his teeth scraping her collarbone lightly.

"No." She says as her hands get lost in his hair yet again. "I was…"

"But?"

"But then I realized why you did it. I was scared. I was avoiding the ER, I hadn't touched a patient it ten days… I was scared and you made me face it." And she kisses his temple.

"Actually," he says with a mischievous grin, "you were just becoming unbearable. I mean, you made that intern cry yesterday, and then you made him do her math homework with her, "to learn how to multiply"; you made the nurses change her bed sheets twice a day, I swear they were about to go on strike; you wouldn't let her eat anything other than food that has no appeal to a child; and you second-guessed _everything_ any of the doctors said. I mean even Stephen was starting to lose it. He made me take you out for coffee the last thee times he needed to check on her."

"Oh, my, god! I knew it was strange the third time it happened." She hits his arm playfully, "I cannot believe you conspired against me."

"Hey, it worked," and he pulls her in closer, "you seem happy."

"I am," she leans her head on his chest and wraps her arms around his midsection, "and just for the record – that intern is a crybaby."

* * *

**A/N: I just wanted to say - THANK YOU for all the reviews, for the messages that you guys sent me asking me about this story. A special shout-out to the cookie Guest Reviewer - You bribed me, and see, I take cookies very seriously, so I'm gonna need you to follow through on that! But honestly you guys are the reason I'm writing again. So thanks. And I hope you liked this, because after 84 years I needed it to not suck completely.**

**Next chapter, I'm thinking some sexy time... but we'll see. And I make no promises about when I'll update, because as those of you who have been messaging me know - I have a very flexible interpretation of my internal deadlines.**


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